LIBRARY 

UNtVBRSITY  OP 


\  \Xo\ 


KEYNOTES. 


Keynotes 

by 
George   Egerton  c 


t-!ULxX-<^, 


Boston  :  Roberts  Brothers 

London  :    Elkin   Mathews 

and  John  Lane,  Vigo  St. 

I  894 


Copyright,  1893, 
By  Roberts  Brothers. 


Sanibersttg  Press: 

John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.S.A. 


TO 

KNUT    HAMSUN," 

In  memory  of  a  day  when  the  west  wind 
and  the  rainbow  met. 

I 892-1 893. 


810 


*'  Fancies  are  toys  of  the  brain^  to  write  them  down  is  to 
destroy  them  —  as  fancies  !  and  yet —  " 

"  I  gave  him  such  a  pretty  toy  to  play  withy  and  he  is 
breaking  it  up.     Whe7i  I  say  :  *  Vou  are  very  naughty  y  Biff; 
if  you  break  it  I  shall  tvhip  you  ! '  he  only  says : 
"  'But  I  musty  Mumsey,  I  must!'  " 

Fragment  of  a  Letter,  1893. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

A  Cross  Line 9 

Now  Spring  has  Come 45 

The  Spell  of  the  White  Elf 76 

A  Little  Gray  Glove 99 

An  Empty  Frame 123 

Under  Northern  Sky: — 

I.    How  Marie  Larsen  exorcised  a  Demon    .  132 

II.    A  Shadow's  Slant 148 

III.    An  Ebb  Tide 163 


KEYNOTES. 


A   CROSS   LINE. 

The  rather  flat  notes  of  a  man  s  voice  float 
out  into  the  clear  air,  singing  the  refrain  of  a 
popular  music-hall  ditty.  There  is  something 
incongruous  between  the  melody  and  the  sur- 
roundings. It  seems  profane,  indelicate,  to 
bring  this  slangy,  vulgar  tune,  and  with  it  the 
mental  picture  of  footlight  flare  and  fantastic 
dance,  into  the  lovely  freshness  of  this  perfect 
spring  day. 

A  woman  sitting  on  a  felled  tree  turns  her 
head  to  meet  its  coming,  and  an  expression  flits 
across  her  face  in  which  disgust  and  humorous 
appreciation  are  subtly  blended.  Her  mind  is 
nothing  if  not  picturesque  ;  her  busy  brain,  with 
all  its  capabilities  choked  by  a  thousand  vagrant 
fancies,  is  always  producing  pictures  and  finding 


lO  KEYNOTES. 

associations  between  the  most  unlikely  objects. 
She  has  been  reading  a  little  sketch  written  in 
the  daintiest  language  of  a  fountain  scene  in 
Tanagra,  and  her  vivid  imagination  has  made 
it  real  to  her.  The  shm,  graceful  maids  grouped 
around  it  filling  their  exquisitely-formed  earthen 
jars,  the  dainty  poise  of  their  classic  heads,  and 
the  flowing  folds  of  their  draperies  have  been 
actually  present  with  her ;  and  now,  —  why,  it  is 
like  the  entrance  of  a  half-typsy  vagabond  player 
bedizened  in  tawdry  finery:  the  picture  is 
blurred.  She  rests  her  head  against  the  trunk 
of  a  pine-tree  behind  her,  and  awaits  the  singer. 
She  is  sitting  on  an  incline  in  the  midst  of  a 
wilderness  of  trees;  some  have  blown  down, 
some  have  been  cut  down,  and  the  lopped 
branches  lie  about;  moss  and  bracken  and  trail- 
ing bramble  bushes,  fir-cones,  wild  rose-bushes, 
and  speckled  red  "  fairy  hats  "  fight  for  life  in 
wild  confusion.  A  disused  quarry  to  the  left  is 
an  ideal  haunt  of  pike,  and  to  the  right  a  little 
river  rushes  along  in  haste  to  join  a  greater 
sister  that  is  fighting  a  troubled  way  to  the  sea. 
A  row  of  stepping-stones  cross  it,  and  if  you 
were  to  stand  on  one  you  would  see  shoals  of 
restless  stone-loach  **  beardies  "  darting  from  side 


A   CROSS   LINE.  II 

to  side.  The  tails  of  several  ducks  can  be  seen 
above  the  water,  and  the  paddle  of  their  balanc- 
ing feet  and  the  gurgling  suction  of  their  bills 
as  they  search  for  larvae  can  be  heard  distinctly 
between  the  hum  of  insect,  twitter  of  bird,  and 
rustle  of  stream  and  leaf.  The  singer  has 
changed  his  lay  to  a  whistle,  and  presently  he 
comes  down  the  path  a  cool,  neat,  gray-clad 
figure,  with  a  fishing  creel  slung  across  his  back, 
and  a  trout  rod  held  on  his  shoulder.  The  air 
ceases  abruptly,  and  his  cold,  gray  eyes  scan 
the  seated  figure  with  its  gypsy  ease  of  attitude, 
a  scarlet  shawl  that  has  fallen  from  her  shoulders 
forming  an  accentuative  background  to  the  slim 
roundness  of  her  waist. 

Persistent  study,  coupled  with  a  varied 
experience  of  the  female  animal,  has  given 
the  owner  of  the  said  gray  eyes  some  facility  in 
classing  her,  although  it  has  not  supplied  him 
with  any  definite  data  as  to  what  any  one  of 
the  species  may  do  in  a  given  circumstance. 
To  put  it  in  his  own  words,  in  answer  to  a 
friend  who  chaffed  him  on  his  untiring  pursuit 
of  women  as  an  interesting  problem,  — 

**  If  a  fellow  has  had  much  experience  of  his 
fellow-man  he  may  divide  him  into  types,  and 


12  KEYNOTES. 

given  a  certain  number  of  men  and  a  certain 
number  of  circumstances,  he  is  pretty  safe  on 
hitting  on  the  hne  of  action  each  type  will 
strike.  'T  aint  so  with  woman.  You  may  always 
look  out  for  the  unexpected ;  she  generally 
upsets  a  fellow's  calculations,  and  you  are  never 
safe  in  laying  odds  on  her.  Tell  you  what,  old 
chappie,  we  may  talk  about  superior  intellect ; 
but  if  a  woman  was  n't  handicapped  by  her 
affection  or  need  of  it,  the  cleverest  chap  in 
Christendom  would  be  just  a  bit  of  putty  in  her 
hands.  I  find  them  more  fascinating  as  prob- 
lems than  anything  going.  Never  let  an  oppor- 
tunity slip  to  get  new  data  —  never  !  " 

He  did  not  now.  He  met  the  frank,  unem- 
barrassed gaze  of  eyes  that  would  have  looked 
with  just  the  same  bright  inquiry  at  the  advent 
of  a  hare  or  a  toad,  or  any  other  object  that 
might  cross  her  path,  and  raised  his  hat  with 
respectful  courtesy,  saying,  in  the  drawling  tone 
habitual  with  him, — 

''  I  hope  I  am  not  trespassing?  " 

"  I  can't  say  ;  you  may  be ;  so  may  I,  but  no 
one  has  ever  told  me  so !  " 

A  pause.  His  quick  glance  has  noted  the 
thick   weddins^-rinc:    on  her   slim    brown    hand 


A   CROSS   LINE.  13 

and  the  flash  of  a  diamond  in  its  keeper.  A 
lady  decidedly.  Fast?  —  perhaps.  Original?  — 
undoubtedly.     Worth  knowing?  —  rather. 

"  I  am  looking  for  a  trout  stream,  but  the 
directions  I  got  were  rather  vague;  might 
I  —  " 

*'  It 's  straight  ahead ;  but  you  won't  catch 
anything  now,  at  least  not  here,  —  sun 's  too 
glaring  and  water  too  low;  a  mile  up  you  may 
in  an  hour's  time." 

'*  Oh,  thanks  awfully  for  the  tip.  You  fish 
then?'* 

"  Yes,  sometimes." 

"Trout  run  big  here?"  (What  odd  eyes  the 
woman  has!   kind  of  magnetic.) 

**  No,  seldom  over  a  pound ;  but  they  are 
very  game." 

''  Rare  good  sport,  is  n't  it,  whipping  a  stream? 
There  is  so  much  besides  the  mere  catching  of 
fish ;  the  river  and  the  trees  and  the  quiet  sets  a 
fellow  thinking  ;  kind  of  sermon  ;  makes  a  chap 
feel  good,  don't  it?  '* 

She  smiles  assentingly,  and  yet  what  the 
devil  is  she  amused  at,  he  queries  mentally. 
An  inspiration !  he  acts  upon  it,  and  says 
eagerly,— 


14  KEYNOTES. 

'*  I  wonder  —  I  don't  half  like  to  ask,  but  fish- 
ing puts  people  on  a  common  footing,  don't  it? 
You  knowing  the  stream,  you  know,  would  you 
tell  me  what  are  the  best  flies  to  use?  " 

''I  tie  my  own,  but  —  " 

"Do  you?  How  clever  of  you!  Wish  I 
could ;  "  and  sitting  down  on  the  other  end  of 
the  tree,  he  takes  out  his  fly-book.  *'But  I 
interrupted  you,  you  were  going  to  say  —  " 

*^  Only,"  —  stretching  out  her  hand,  of  a  perfect 
shape  but  decidedly  brown,  for  the  book,  —  "  that 
you  might  give  the  local  fly-tyer  a  trial ;  he  '11 
tell  you.  Later  on,  end  of  next  month,  or  per- 
haps later,  you  might  try  the  oak-fly,  —  the  nat- 
ural fly,  you  know.  A  horn  is  the  best  thing  to 
hold  them  in,  they  get  out  of  anything  else ; 
and  put  two  on  at  a  time." 

*'  By  Jove,  I  must  try  that  dodge  !  " 

He  watches  her  as  she  handles  his  book  and 
examines  the  contents  critically,  turning  aside 
some  with  a  glance,  fingering  others  almost 
tenderly,  holding  them  daintily,  and  noting  the 
cock  of  wings  and  the  hint  of  tinsel,  with  her 
head  on  one  side,  —  a  trick  of  hers,  he  thinks. 

*'  Which  do-  you  like  most,  wet  or  dry  fly?  " 
She  is  looking  at  some  dry  flies. 


A  CROSS   LINE.  1 5 

"  Oh,"  with  that  rare  smile,  **  at  the  time  I 
swear  by  whichever  happens  to  catch  most  fish, 

—  perhaps  really  dry  fly.  I  fancy  most  of  these 
flies  are  better  for  Scotland  or  England.  Up 
to  this,  March-brown  has  been  the  most  killing 
thing.     But  you  might  try  an  *  orange-grouse,' 

—  that's  always  good  here,  —  with  perhaps  a 
*  hare's  ear '  for  a  change,  and  put  on  a  '  coach- 
man '  for  the  evenings.  My  husband  [he  steals 
a  side  look  at  her]  brought  home  some  beauties 
yesterday  evening." 

''  Lucky  fellow !  " 

She  returns  the  book.  There  is  a  tone  in  his 
voice  as  he  says  this  that  jars  on  her,  sensitive 
as  she  is  to  every  inflection  of  a  voice,  with  an 
intuition  that  is  almost  second  sight.  She 
gathers  up  her  shawl,  —  she  has  a  cream-colored 
woollen  gown  on,  and  her  skin  looks  duskily 
foreign  by  contrast.  She  is  on  her  feet  before 
he  can  regain  his,  and  says,  with  a  cool  Httle 
bend  of  her  head  :  "  Good  afternoon,  I  wish  you 
a  full  basket !  " 

Before  he  can  raise  his  cap  she  is  down  the 
slope,  gliding  with  easy  steps  that  have  a  strange 
grace,  and  then  springing  lightly  from  stone 
to   stone    across   the    stream.     He   feels   small. 


l6  KEYNOTES. 

snubbed  someway ;  and  he  sits  down  on  the 
spot  where  she  sat,  and  Hghting  his  pipe  says, 
"  Check !  " 

•         •••••••• 

She  is  walking  slowly  up  the  garden  path ;  a 
man  in  his  shirt-sleeves  is  stooping  among  the 
tender  young  peas;  a  bundle  of  stakes  lies 
next  him,  and  he  whistles  softly  and  all  out  of 
tune  as  he  twines  the  little  tendrils  round  each 
new  support.  She  looks  at  his  broad  shoulders 
and  narrow  flanks ;  his  back  is  too  long  for  great 
strength  she  thinks.  He  hears  her  step,  and 
smiles  up  at  her  from  under  the  shadow  of  his 
broad-leafed  hat. 

*^  How  do  you  feel  now,  old  woman?'* 

**  Beastly  !  I  Ve  got  that  horrid  qualmish  feel- 
ing again.     I  can't  get  rid  of  it.'* 

He  has  spread  his  coat  on  the  side  of  the 
path,  and  pats  it  for  her  to  sit  down. 

"  What  is  it?"  anxiously.  "  If  you  were  a 
mare  I  'd  know  what  to  do  for  you.  Have  a 
nip  of  whiskey?  " 

He  strides  off  without  waiting  for  her  reply, 
and  comes  back  with  it  and  a  biscuit,  kneels 
down  and  holds  the  glass  to  her  hps.  "Poor 
little  woman,  buck  up  !     You  '11  see  that  '11  fix 


A   CROSS   LINE.  \J 

you.  Then  you  go,  by-and-by,  and  have  a  shy 
at  the  fish." 

She  is  about  to  say  something,  when  a  fresh 
qualm  attacks  her  and  she  does  not.  He  goes 
back  to  his  tying. 

'*  By  Jove  ! ''  he  says  suddenly,  ""  I  forgot ;  got 
something  to  show  you  !  '* 

After  a  few  minutes  he  returns,  carrying  a 
basket  covered  with  a  piece  of  sacking;  a  dishev- 
elled-looking hen,  with  spread  wings  traihng 
and  her  breast  bare  from  sitting  on  her  eggs, 
screeches  after  him.  He  puts  it  carefully  down 
and  uncovers  it,  disclosing  seven  little  balls  of 
yellow  fluff  splashed  with  olive-green;  they 
look  up  sideways  with  bright  round  eyes,  and 
their  little  spoon-bills  look  disproportionately 
large. 

^*  Are  n't  they  beauties?"  enthusiastically. 
*^  This  one  is  just  out,"  taking  up  an  ^%^\ 
''mustn't  let  it  get  chilled;  there  is  a  chip  out 
of  it  and  a  piece  of  hanging  skin.  Is  n't  it 
funny?"  he  asks,  showing  her  how  it  is  curled 
in  the  shell,  with  its  paddles  flattened  and  its 
bill  breaking  through  the  chip,  and  the  slimy 
feathers  sticking  to  its  violet  skin. 

She    suppresses  an   exclamation    of  disgust, 


1 8  KEYNOTES. 

and  looks  at  his  fresh-tinted  skin  instead.  He 
is  covering  basket,  hen,  and  all. 

*^  How  you  love  young  things  !  ''  she  says. 

"  Some  !  I  had  a  filly  once  ;  she  turned  out  a 
'lovely  mare!  I  cried  when  I  had  to  sell  her;  I 
would  n't  have  let  any  one  in  God's  world  mount 
her." 

**  Yes,  you  would  !  " 

"Who?  "  with  a  quick  look  of  resentment. 

**Me!" 

"  I  would  n't !  '' 

"What!  you  wouldn't?'' 

''  I  would  n't !  " 

*'  I  think  you  would  if  I  wanted  to  !  "  with  a 
flash  out  of  the  tail  of  her  eye. 

"No,  I  wouldn't!" 

"  Then  you  would  care  more  for  her  than  for 
me.  I  would  give  you  your  choice,"  passion- 
ately, "  her  or  me  !  '* 

"  What  nonsense  !  " 

"  Maybe,"  concentrated ;  "  but  it 's  lucky  she 
isn't  here  to  make  deadly  sense  of  it."  A 
humble-bee  buzzes  close  to  her  ear,  and  she  is 
roused  to  a  sense  of  facts,  and  laughs  to  think 
how  nearly  they  have  quarrelled  over  a  mare 
that  was  sold  before  she  knew  him. 


A  CROSS   LINE.  19 

Some  evenings  later  she  is  stretched  motion- 
less in  a  chair  ;  and  yet  she  conveys  an  impres- 
sion of  restlessness,  —  a  sensitively  nervous  per- 
son would  feel  it.  She  is  gazing  at  her  husband  ; 
her  brows  are  drawn  together,  and  make  three 
little  lines.  He  is  reading,  reading  quietly, 
without  moving  his  eyes  quickly  from  side  to 
side  of  the  page  as  she  does  when  she  reads, 
and  he  pulls  away  at  a  big  pipe  with  steady 
enjoyment.  Her  eyes  turn  from  him  to  the 
window,  and  follow  the  course  of  two  clouds ; 
then  they  close  for  a  few  seconds,  then  open 
to  watch  him  again.     He  looks  up  and  smiles. 

**  Finished  your  book?  " 

There  is  a  singular,  soft  monotony  in  his 
voice ;  the  organ  with  which  she  replies  is 
capable  of  more  varied   expression. 

*'  Yes,  it  is  a  book  makes  one  think.  It  would 
be  a  greater  book  if  he  were  not  an  Englishman ; 
he 's  afraid  of  shocking  the  big  middle  class. 
You  would  n't  care  about  it." 

"  Finished  your  smoke?  " 

"  No,  it  went  out ;  too  much  fag  to  light  up 
again !  No,"  protestingly,  '*  never  you  mind, 
old  boy,  why  do  you?" 


20  KEYNOTES. 

He  has  drawn  his  long  length  out  of  his  chair, 
and  kneeling  down  beside  her  guards  a  lighted 
match  from  the  incoming  evening  air.  She 
draws  in  the  smoke  contentedly,  and  her  eyes 
smile  back  with  a  general  vague  tenderness. 

**  Thank  you,  dear  old  man  !  " 

'*  Going  out  again?  "     Negative  head-shake. 

"Back  aching?"  Affirmative  nod,  accom- 
panied by  a  steadily  aimed  puff  of  smoke, 
that  she  has  been  carefully  inhaling,  into  his 
eyes. 

''  Scamp  !     Have  your  booties  off?  " 

**  Oh,  don't  you  bother !  Lizzie  will  do 
it." 

He  has  seized  a  foot  from  under  the  rocker, 
and  sitting  on  his  heels  holds  it  on  his  knee, 
while  he  unlaces  the  boot ;  then  he  loosens  the 
stocking  under  her  toes,  and  strokes  her  foot 
gently.  **  Now  the  other !  "  Then  he  drops 
both  boots  outside  the  door,  and  fetching  a  little 
pair  of  slippers,  past  their  first  smartness,  from 
the  bedroom,  puts  one  on.  He  examines  the 
left  foot :  it  is  a  little  swollen  round  the  ankle, 
and  he  presses  his  broad  fingers  gently  round  it 
as  one  sees  a  man  do  to  a  horse  with  windgalls. 
Then  he  pulls  the  rocker  nearer  to  his  chair,  and 


A   CROSS   LINE.  21 

rests  the  slipperless  foot  on  his  thigh.  He  re- 
lights his  pipe,  takes  up  his  book,  and  rubs 
softly  from  ankle  to  toes  as  he  reads. 

She  smokes,  and  watches  him,  diverting  her- 
self by  imagining  him  in  the  hats  of  different 
periods.  His  is  a  delicate  skinned  face,  with 
regular  features ;  the  eyes  are  fine  in  color  and 
shape,  with  the  luminous  clearness  of  a  child's; 
his  pointed  beard  is  soft  and  curly.  She  looks 
at  his  hand,  —  a  broad,  strong  hand  with  capable 
fingers  ;  the  hand  of  a  craftsman,  a  contradic- 
tion to  the  face  with  its  distinguished  delicacy. 
She  holds  her  own  up,  with  a  cigarette  poised 
between  the  first  and  second  fingers,  idly  pleased 
with  its  beauty  of  form  and  delicate,  nervous 
slightness.  One  speculation  chases  the  other 
in  her  quick  brain:  odd  questions  as  to  race 
arise;  she  dives  into  theories  as  to  the  why  and 
wherefore  of  their  distinctive  natures,  and  holds 
a  mental  debate  in  which  she  takes  both  sides 
of  the  question  impartially.  He  has  finished  his 
pipe,  laid  down  his  book,  and  is  gazing  dreamily 
into  space,  with  his  eyes  darkened  by  their  long 
lashes  and  a  look  of  tender  melancholy  in  their 
clear  depths. 

*'  What   are  you    thinking   of? "     There  is  a 


22  KEYNOTES. 

look  of  expectation  in  her  quivering  nervous 
little  face. 

He  turns  to  her,  chafing  her  ankle  again.  *^  I 
was  wondering  if  lob-worms  would  do  for  —  " 

He  stops :  a  strange  look  of  disappointment 
flits  across  her  face  and  is  lost  in  an  hysterical 
peal  of  laughter. 

"  You  are  the  best  emotional  check  I  ever 
knew,"  she  gasps. 

He  stares  at  her  in  utter  bewilderment,  and 
then  a  slow  smile  creeps  to  his  eyes  and  curves 
the  thin  lips  under  his  mustache,  —  a  smile  at 
her.     **  You  seem  amused,  Gypsy !  " 

She  springs  out  of  her  chair,  and  takes  book 
and  pipe  ;  he  follows  the  latter  anxiously  with 
his  eyes  until  he  sees  it  laid  safely  on  the  table. 
Then  she  perches  herself,  resting  her  knees 
against  one  of  his  legs,  while  she  hooks  her  feet 
back  under  the  other. 

**  Now  I  am  all  up,  don't  I  look  small?  " 

He  smiles  his  slow  smile.  '*  Yes,  I  believe 
you  are  made  of  gutta  percha." 

She  is  stroking  out  all  the  lines  in  his  face 
with  the  tip  of  her  finger;  then  she  runs  it 
through  his  hair.  He  twists  his  head  half 
impatiently ;  she  desists. 


A  CROSS   LINE.  23 

**  I  divide  all  the  people  in  the  world/'  she 
says,  **  into  those  who  like  their  hair  played 
with,  and  those  who  don't.  Having  my  hair 
brushed  gives  me  more  pleasure  than  anything 
else;  it's  delicious.  I'd  purr  if  I  knew  how. 
I  notice,"  meditatively,  *'  I  am  never  in  sym- 
pathy with  those  who  don't  like  it.  I  am  with 
those  who  do ;   I  always  get  on  with  them." 

*'  You  are  a  queer  little  devil !  " 

"  Am  I  ?  I  should  n't  have  thought  you  would 
have  found  out  I  was  the  latter  at  all.  I  wish 
I  were  a  man  !  I  believe  if  I  were  a  man,  I  'd 
be  a  disgrace  to  my  family." 

*'Why?" 

**  I  'd  go  on  a  jolly  old  spree  !  " 

He  laughs :  **  Poor  little  woman  !  is  it  so  dull?  " 

There  is  a  gleam  of  deviltry  in  her  eyes, 
and  she  whispers  solemnly,  — 

*'  Begin  with  a  D,"  and  she  traces  imaginary 
letters  across  his  forehead,  and  ending  with  a 
flick  over  his  ear,  says,  "  and  that  is  the  tail 
of  the  y  !  "  After  a  short  silence  she  queries  : 
**  Are  you  fond  of  me  ?  "  She  is  rubbing  her 
chin   up   and   down   his   face. 

''  Of  course  I  am,  don't  you  know  it?  " 

**  Yes,  perhaps  I  do,"  impatiently  ;  **  but  I  want 


24  KEYNOTES. 

to  be  told  it.  A  woman  does  n't  care  a  fig  for 
a  love  as  deep  as  the  death-sea  and  as  silent ; 
she  wants  something  that  tells  her  it  in  little 
waves  all  the  time.  It  is  n't  the  love,  you 
know,  it 's  the  being  loved ;  it  is  n't  really  the 
man,  it*s  his  loving  !  " 

*'  By  Jove,  you  're  a  rum  un  !  " 

"  I  wish  I  was  n't,  then.  I  wish  I  was  as 
commonplace  as —  You  don't  tell  me  any- 
thing about  myself,"  a  fierce  little  kiss;  "you 
might,  even  if  it  were  lies.  Other  men  who 
cared  for  me  told  me  things  about  my  eyes, 
my  hands,  anything.    I  don't  believe  you  notice." 

''  Yes  I  do,  little  one,  only  I  think  it." 

*'  Yes,  but  I  don't  care  a  bit  for  your  thinking  ; 
if  I  can't  see  what 's  in  your  head,  what  good  is 
it  to  me?  " 

**  I  wish  I  could  understand  you,  dear !  " 

*'  I  wish  to  God  you  could  !  Perhaps  if  you 
were  badder  and  I  were  gooder  we  'd  meet  half- 
way. You  are  an  awfully  good  old  chap ;  it 's 
just  men  like  you  send  women  like  me  to  the 
devil !  " 

"  But  you  are  good,"  kissing  her,  —  "a  real 
good  chum !  You  understand  a  fellow's  weak 
points ;  you  don't  blow  him  up  if  he  gets  on  a 


A   CROSS   LINE.  25 

bit.  Why,"  enthusiastically,  ''  being  married  to 
you  is  like  chumming  with  a  chap !  Why,'* 
admiringly,  ''  do  you  remember  before  we  were 
married,  when  I  let  that  card  fall  out  of  my 
pocket?  Why,  I  couldn't  have  told  another 
girl  about  her !  she  would  n't  have  beheved  that 
I  was  straight ;  she  'd  have  thrown  me  over,  and 
you  sent  her  a  quid  because  she  was  sick.  You 
are  a  great  little  woman !  " 

*'  Don't  see  it !  "  she  is  biting  his  ear.  **  Per- 
haps I  was  a  man  last  time,  and  some  heredi- 
tary memories  are  cropping  up  in  this  incar- 
nation !  " 

He  looks  so  utterly  at  sea  that  she  must 
laugh  again,  and,  kneeling  up,  shuts  his  eyes 
with  kisses,  and  bites  his  chin  and  shakes  it 
like  a  terrier  in  her  strong  little  teeth. 

**  You  imp  !  was  there  ever  such  a  woman  !  " 

Catching  her  wrists,  he  parts  his  knees  and 
drops  her  on  to  the  rug ;  then  perhaps  the  subtile 
magnetism  that  is  in  her  affects  him,  for  he 
stoops  and  snatches  her  up  and  carries  her  up 
and  down,  and  then  over  to  the  window,  and  lets 
the  fading  light  with  its  glimmer  of  moonshine 
play  on  her  odd  face  with  its  tantalizing  changes, 
and  his  eyes   dilate  and  his  color  deepens   as 


26  KEYNOTES. 

he   crushes   her   soft   httle    body   to   him    and 
carries  her  off  to  her  room. 

Summer  is  waning,  and  the  harvest  is  ripe 
for  ingathering,  and  the  voice  of  the  reaping 
machine  is  loud  in  the  land.  She  is  stretched 
on  her  back  on  the  short,  heather-mixed  moss 
at  the  side  of  a  bog  stream.  Rod  and  creel  are 
flung  aside,  and  the  wanton  breeze  with  the 
breath  of  coolness  it  has  gathered  in  its  passage 
over  the  murky  dykes  of  black  bog-water  is 
playing  with  the  tail-fly,  tossing  it  to  and  fro 
with  a  half  threat  to  fasten  it  to  a  prickly  spine 
of  golden  gorse.  Bunches  of  bog-wool  nod 
their  fluffy  heads,  and  through  the  myriad  in- 
definite sounds  comes  the  regular  scrape  of  a 
strickle  on  the  scythe  of  a  reaper  in  a  neighbor- 
ing meadow.  Overhead  a  flotilla  of  clouds  is 
steering  from  the  south  in  a  northeasterly 
direction.  Her  eyes  follow  them,  —  old-time 
galleons,  she  thinks,  with  their  wealth  of  snowy 
sail  spread,  riding  breast  to  breast  up  a  wide,  blue 
fjord  after  victory.  The  sails  of  the  last  are  rose- 
flushed,  with  a  silver  edge.  Someway  she  thinks 
of  Cleopatra  sailing  down  to  meet  Antony,  and 
a  great  longing  fills  her  soul  to  sail  off  some- 


A   CROSS   LINE.  2/ 

where  too,  —  away  from  the  daily  need  of  dinner- 
getting  and  the  recurring  Monday  with  its 
washing,  Hfe  with  its  tame  duties  and  virtuous 
monotony.  She  fancies  herself  in  Arabia  on 
the  back  of  a  swift  steed ;  flashing  eyes  set  in 
dark  faces  surround  her,  and  she  can  see  the 
clouds  of  sand  swirl,  and  feel  the  swing  under 
her  of  his  rushing  stride;  and  her  thoughts 
shape  themselves  into  a  wild  song,  —  a  song  to 
her  steed  of  flowing  mane  and  satin  skin,  an  un- 
couth rhythmical  jingle  with  a  feverish  beat;  a 
song  to  the  untamed  spirit  that  dwells  in  her. 
Then  she  fancies  she  is  on  the  stage  of  an 
ancient  theatre,  out  in  the  open  air,  with 
hundreds  of  faces  upturned  toward  her.  She 
is  gauze-clad  in  a  cobweb  garment  of  wondrous 
tissue ;  her  arms  are  clasped  by  jewelled  snakes, 
and  one  with  quivering  diamond  fangs  coils 
round  her  hips ;  her  hair  floats  loosely,  and  her 
feet  are  sandal-clad,  and  the  delicate  breath  of 
vines  and  the  salt  freshness  of  an  incoming  sea 
seem  to  fill  her  nostrils.  She  bounds  forward 
and  dances,  bends  her  lissome  waist,  and  curves 
her  slender  arms,  and  gives  to  the  soul  of  each 
man  what  he  craves,  be  it  good  or  evil.  And 
she  can  feel  now,  lying  here  in  the  shade  of 


28  KEYNOTES. 

Irish  hills,  with  her  head  resting  on  her  scarlet 
shawl  and  her  eyes  closed,  the  grand,  intoxicat- 
ing power  of  swaying  all  these  human  souls  to 
wonder  and  applause.  She  can  see  herself  with 
parted  lips  and  panting,  rounded  breasts,  and 
a  dancing  devil  in  each  glowing  eye,  sway 
voluptuously  to  the  wild  music  that  rises,  now 
slow,  now  fast,  now  deliriously  wild,  seductive, 
intoxicating,  with  a  human  note  of  passion  in  its 
strain.  She  can  feel  the  answering  shiver  of 
emotion  that  quivers  up  to  her  from  the  dense 
audience,  spellbound  by  the  motion  of  her 
glancing  feet;  and  she  flies  swifter  and  swifter, 
and  lighter  and  lighter,  till  the  very  serpents 
seem  alive  with  jewelled  scintillations.  One 
quivering,  gleaming,  daring  bound,  and  she 
stands  with  outstretched  arms  and  passion- 
filled  eyes,  poised  on  one  slender  foot,  asking  a 
supreme  note  to  finish  her  dream  of  motion; 
and  the  men  rise  to  a  man  and  answer  her,  and 
cheer,  cheer  till  the  echoes  shout  from  the  sur- 
rounding hills  and  tumble  wildly  down  the 
crags. 

The  clouds  have  sailed  away,  leaving  long 
feathery  streaks  in  their  wake.  Her  eyes  have 
an  inseeing  look,    and   she   is   tremulous   with 


A  CROSS  LINE.  29 

excitement;  she  can  hear  yet  that  last  grand 
shout,  and  the  strain  of  that  old-time  music  that 
she  has  never  heard  in  this  life  of  hers,  save  as 
an  inner  accompaniment  to  the  memory  of 
hidden  things,  born  with  her,  not  of  this  time. 

And  her  thoughts  go  to  other  women  she  has 
known,  women  good  and  bad,  school  friends, 
casual  acquaintances,  women  workers, — joyless 
machines  for  grinding  daily  corn,  unwilling 
maids  grown  old  in  the  endeavor  to  get  settled, 
patient  wives  who  bear  little  ones  to  indifferent 
husbands  until  they  wear  out,  —  a  long  array. 
She  busies  herself  with  questioning.  Have 
they,  too,  this  thirst  for  excitement,  for  change, 
this  restless  craving  for  sun  and  love  and  mo- 
tion? Stray  words,  half  confidences,  glimpses 
through  soul-chinks  of  suppressed  fires,  actual 
outbreaks,  domestic  catastrophes,  —  how  the 
ghosts  dance  in  the  cells  of  her  memory !  And 
she  laughs,  laughs  softly  to  herself,  because  the 
denseness  of  man,  his  chivalrous,  conservative 
devotion  to  the  female  idea  he  has  created, 
blinds  him,  perhaps  happily,  to  the  problems 
of  her  complex  nature.  "  Ay,'*  she  mutters 
musingly,  "  the  wisest  of  them  can  only  say  we 
are  enigmas ;   each  one  of  them  sets  about  solv- 


30  KEYNOTES. 

ing  the  riddle  of  the  ewigweibliche,  —  and  well  it 
is  that  the  workings  of  our  hearts  are  closed  to 
them,  that  we  are  cunning  enough  or  great 
enough  to  seem  to  be  what  they  would  have 
us,  rather  than  be  what  we  are.  But  few  of 
them  have  had  the  insight  to  find  out  the  key 
to  our  seeming  contradictions,  —  the  why  a 
refined,  physically  fragile  woman  will  mate  with 
a  brute,  a  mere  male  animal  with  primitive  pas- 
sions, and  love  him;  the  why  strength  and 
beauty  appeal  more  often  than  the  more  subtly 
fine  qualities  of  mind  or  heart ;  the  why  women 
(and  not  the  innocent  ones)  will  condone  sins 
that  men  find  hard  to  forgive  in  their  fellows. 
They  have  all  overlooked  the  eternal  wild- 
ness,  the  untamed  primitive  savage  tempera- 
ment that  lurks  in  the  mildest,  best  woman. 
Deep  in  through  ages  of  convention  this  pri- 
meval trait  burns,  —  an  untamable  quantity  that 
may  be  concealed  but  is  never  eradicated  by 
culture,  the  keynote  of  woman's  witchcraft  and 
woman's  strength.  But  it  is  there,  sure  enough, 
and  each  woman  is  conscious  of  it  in  her  truth- 
telling  hours  of  quiet  self-scrutiny;  and  each 
woman  in  God's  wide  world  will  deny  it,  and 
each  woman  will  help  another  to  conceal  it,  — 


A  CROSS   LINE.  3 1 

for  the  woman  who  tells  the  truth  and  is  not  a 
liar  about  these  things  is  untrue  to  her  sex  and 
abhorrent  to  man,  for  he  has  fashioned  a  model 
on  imaginary  lines,  and  he  has  said,  *  So  I 
would  have  you ! '  and  every  woman  is  an  un- 
conscious liar,  for  so  man  loves  her.  And  when 
a  Strindberg  or  a  Nietzche  arises  and  peers  into 
the  recesses  of  her  nature  and  dissects  her  ruth- 
lessly, the  men  shriek  out  louder  than  the 
women,  because  the  truth  is  at  all  times  unpal- 
atable, and  the  gods  they  have  set  up  are  dear 
to  them  — '' 

**  Dreaming,  or  speering  into  futurity?  You 
have  the  look  of  a  seer.  I  believe  you  are  half 
a  witch !  '*  And  he  drops  his  gray-clad  figure 
on  the  turf;  he  has  dropped  his  drawl  long 
ago  in  midsummer. 

"Is  not  every  woman  that?  Let  us  hope 
I  'm  for  my  friends  a  white  one.'' 
"  A- ah  !  Have  you  many  friends?  " 
•'  That  is  a  query  !  If  you  mean  many  cor- 
respondents, many  persons  who  send  me  Christ- 
mas cards,  or  remember  my  birthday,  or  figure 
in  my  address  book,  —  no." 

"  Well,  grant  I  don't  mean  that !  " 

''  Well,    perhaps,   yes.     Scattered    over    the 


32  KEYNOTES. 

world,  if  my  death  were  belled  out,  many 
women  would  give  me  a  tear,  and  some  a 
prayer;  and  many  men  would  turn  back  a  page 
in  their  memory  and  give  me  a  kind  thought, 
perhaps  a  regret,  and  go  back  to  their  work 
with  a  feeling  of  having  lost  something  that 
they  never  possessed.  I  am  a  creature  of  mo- 
ments. Women  have  told  me  that  I  came  into 
their  lives  just  when  they  needed  me;  men 
had  no  need  to  tell  me,  I  felt  it.  People  have 
needed  me  more  than  I  them.  I  have  given 
freely  whatever  they  craved  from  me  in  the 
way  of  understanding  or  love ;  I  have  touched 
sore  places  they  showed  me,  and  healed  them, 

—  but  they  never  got  at  me.  I  have  been  for 
myself,  and  helped  myself,  and  borne  the  bur- 
den of  my  own  mistakes.  Some  have  chafed 
at  my  self-sufficiency,  and  have  called  me  fickle, 

—  not  understanding  that  they  gave  me  noth- 
ing, and  that  when  I  had  served  them  their 
moment  was  ended,  and  I  was  to  pass  on.  I 
read  people  easily,  I  am  written  in  black  letter 
to  most  —  " 

*'  To  your  husband  ?  '* 

*'  He,"  quickly,  —  "  we  will  not  speak  of  him ; 
it  is  not  loyal." 


A  CROSS    LINE.  33 

*'  Do  not  I  understand  you  a  little?  " 

"  You  do  not  misunderstand  me/* 

''  That  is  something." 

**It  is  much! '' 

*'  Is  it?"  searching  her  face.  "It  is  not  one 
grain  of  sand  in  the  desert  that  stretches  be- 
tween you  and  me,  and  you  are  as  impenetrable 
as  a  sphinx  at  the  end  of  it.  This,"  passionately, 
*'  is  my  moment,  and  what  have  you  given  me?  " 

*'  Perhaps  less  than  other  men  I  have  known ; 
but  you  want  less.  You  are  a  little  like  me,  — 
you  can  stand  alone;  and  yet,"  her  voice  is 
shaking,  *' have  I  given  you  nothing?" 

He  laughs,  and  she  winces;  and  they  sit 
silent,  and  they  both  feel  as  if  the  earth  between 
them  is  laid  with  infinitesimal  electric  threads 
vibrating  with  a  common  pain.  Her  eyes  are 
filled  with  tears  that  burn  but  don't  fall;  and 
she  can  see  his  some  way  through  her  closed 
lids,  see  their  cool  grayness  troubled  by  sudden 
fire,  and  she  rolls  her  handkerchief  into  a  moist 
cambric  ball  between  her  cold  palms. 

"  You  have  given  me  something,  something 
to  carry  away  with  me,  —  an  infernal  want.  You 
ought  to  be  satisfied :  I  am  infernally  miser- 
able. You,"  nearer,  ''  have  the  most  tantalizing 
3 


34  KEYNOTES. 

mouth  in  the  world  when  your  lips  tremble 
like  that.     I —     What !  can  you  cry?     You?'* 

**  Yes,  even  I  can  cry !  " 

"  You  dear  woman  !  '*  pause ;  ''  and  I  can't  help 
you?*' 

"  You  can't  help  me ;  no  man  can.  Don't 
think  it  is  because  you  are  you  I  cry,  but 
because  you  probe  a  little  nearer  into  the  real 
me  that  I  feel  so." 

*'  Was  it  necessay  to  say  that?  "  reproachfully ; 
"  do  you  think  I  don't  know  it?  I  can't  for  the 
life  of  me  think  how  you,  with  that  free  gypsy 
nature  of  yours,  could  bind  yourself  to  a 
monotonous  country  life,  with  no  excitement, 
no  change.  I  wish  I  could  offer  you  my  yacht; 
do  you  like  the  sea?" 

'^  I  love  it;  it  answers  one's  moods." 

*'  Well,  let  us  play  pretending,  as  the  children 
say.  Grant  that  I  could,  I  would  hang  your 
cabin  with  your  own  colors,  fill  it  with  books 
(all  those  I  have  heard  you  say  you  care  for), 
make  it  a  nest  as  rare  as  the  bird  it  would 
shelter.  You  would  reign  supreme.  When  your 
highness  would  deign  to  honor  her  servant,  I 
would  come  and  humor  your  every  whim.  If 
you  were  glad,  you  could  clap  your  hands  and 


A   CROSS   LINE.  35 

order  music,  and  we  would  dance  on  the  white 
deck,  and  we  would  skim  through  the  sunshine 
of  Southern  seas  on  a  spice-scented  breeze. 
You  make  me  poetical.  And  if  you  were  angry, 
you  could  vent  your  feelings  on  me,  and  I  would 
give  in  and  bow  my  head  to  your  mood.  And 
we  would  drop  anchor,  and  stroll  through 
strange  cities, —go  far  inland  and  glean  folk- 
lore out  of  the  beaten  track  of  everyday  tourists  ; 
and  at  night,  when  the  harbor  slept,  we  would 
sail  out  through  the  moonlight  over  silver  seas. 
You  are  smiling,  —  you  look  so  different  when 
you  smile;   do  you  like  my  picture?" 

"Some  of  it!'* 

'* What  not?"     . 

"  You  !  " 

"  Thank  you." 

**  You  asked  me.  Can't  you  understand  where 
the  spell  lies?  It  is  the  freedom,  the  freshness, 
the  vague  danger,  the  unknown  that  has  a 
witchery  for  me,  —  ay,  for  every  woman  !  " 

*'  Are  you  incapable  of  affection,  then?  " 

''  Of  course  not.  I  share,"  bitterly,  "  that 
crowning  disability  of  my  sex  ;  but  not  willingly, 
—  I  chafe  under  it.  My  God  !  if  it  were  not  for 
that,  we  women  would  master  the  world  !     I  tell 


36  KEYNOTES. 

you,  men  would  be  no  match  for  us !  At  heart  we 
care  nothing  for  laws,  nothing  for  systems ;  all 
your  elaborately  reasoned  codes  for  controlHng 
morals  or  man  do  not  weigh  a  jot  with  us 
against  an  impulse,  an  instinct.  We  learn  those 
things  from  you,  —  you  tamed,  amenable  ani- 
mals ;  they  are  not  natural  to  us.  It  is  a  wise  dis- 
position of  Providence  that  this  untamableness 
of  ours  is  corrected  by  our  affections.  We  forge 
our  own  chains  in  a  moment  of  softness,  and 
then,"  bitterly,  '*  we  may  as  well  wear  them  with 
a  good  grace.  Perhaps  many  of  our  seeming 
contradictions  are  only  the  outward  evidences 
of  inward  chafing.  Bah!  the  qualities  that  go 
to  make  a  Napoleon  —  superstition,  want  of 
honor,  disregard  of  opinion,  and  the  eternal  I  — 
are  oftener  to  be  found  in  a  woman  than  a  man. 
Lucky  for  the  world,  perhaps,  that  all  these 
attributes  weigh  as  nothing  in  the  balance  with 
the  need  to  love,  if  she  be  a  good  woman ;  to  be 
loved,  if  she  is  of  a  coarser  fibre." 

'*  I  never  met  any  one  like  you;  you  are  a 
strange  woman !  " 

''  No,  I  am  merely  a  truthful  one.  Women 
talk  to  me  —  why?  I  can't  say ;  but  always  they 
come,  strip  their  hearts  and  souls  naked,  and  let 


A   CROSS   LINE.  37 

me  see  the  hidden  folds  of  their  natures.  The 
greatest  tragedies  I  have  ever  read  are  child's 
play  to  those  I  have  seen  acted  in  the  inner  life 
of  outwardly  commonplace  women.  A  woman 
must  beware  of  speaking  the  truth  to  a  man; 
he  loves  her  the  less  for  it.  It  is  the  elusive 
spirit  in  her,  that  he  divines  but  cannot  seize, 
that   facinates  and  keeps  him.'* 

There  is  a  long  silence;  the  sun  is  waning 
and  the  scythes  are  silent,  and  overhead  the 
crows  are  circling,  —  a  croaking,  irregular  army, 
homeward  bound  from  a  long  day's  pillage. 

She  has  made  no  sign,  yet  so  subtilely  is  the 
air  charged  with  her  that  he  feels  but  a  few 
moments  remain  to  him.  He  goes  over  and 
kneels  beside  her,  and  fixes  his  eyes  on  her  odd, 
dark  face.  They  both  tremble,  yet  neither 
speaks.  His  breath  is  coming  quickly,  and 
the  bistre  stains  about  her  eyes  seem  to  have 
deepened,  perhaps  by  contrast,  as  she  has  paled. 

''  Look  at  me  !  '' 

She  turns  her  head  right  round  and  gazes 
straight  into  his  face;  a  few  drops  of  sweat 
glisten  on  his  forehead. 

**  You  witch  woman !  what  am  I  to  do  with 
myself  ?     Is  my  moment  ended?  " 


38  KEYNOTES. 

"  I  think  so." 

"  Lord,  what  a  mouth  !  " 

"Don't!  oh,  don't!" 

**  No,  I  won't.  But  do  you  mean  it?  Am  I, 
who  understand  your  every  mood,  your  restless 
spirit,  to  vanish  out  of  your  Hfe?  You  can't 
mean  it !  Listen  !  —  are  you  Hstening  to  me  ?  I 
can't  see  your  face  ;  take  down  your  hands.  Go 
back  over  every  chance  meeting  you  and  I  have 
had  together  since  I  met  you  first  by  the  river, 
and  judge  them  fairly.  To-day  is  Monday: 
Wednesday  afternoon  I  shall  pass  your  gate, 
and  if —  if  my  moment  is  ended,  and  you  mean 
to  send  me  away,  to  let  me  go  with  this  weary 
aching  —  " 

**  A-ah !  "  she  stretches  out  one  brown  hand 
appealingly,  but  he  does  not  touch  it. 

"  Hang  something  white  on  the  lilac  bush  !  " 

She  gathers  up  creel  and  rod,  and  he  takes 
her  shawl,  and  wrapping  it  round  her  holds  her 
a  moment  in  it,  and  looks  searchingly  into  her 
eyes,  then  stands  back  and  raises  his  hat,  and 
she  glides  away  through  the  reedy  grass. 

Wednesday  morning  she  lies  watching  the 
clouds  sail  by.     A  late  rose-spray  nods  into  the 


A  CROSS   LINE.  39 

open  window,  and  the  petals  fall  every  time. 
A  big  bee  buzzes  in  and  fills  the  room  with  his 
bass  note,  and  then  dances  out  again.  She  can 
hear  his  footstep  on  the  gravel.  Presently  he 
looks  in  over  the  half  window,  — 

''  Get  up  and  come  out,  —  'twill  do  you  good  ; 
have  a  brisk  walk  !  " 

She  shakes  her  head  languidly,  and  he  throws 
a  great  soft,  dewy  rose  with  sure  aim  on  her 
breast. 

**  Shall  I  go  in  and  lift  you  out  and  put  you, 
*  nighty'  and  all,  into  your  tub?" 

"  No !  "  impatiently.  '*  I  '11  get  up  just 
now." 

The  head  disappears,  and  she  rises  wearily 
and  gets  through  her  dressing  slowly,  stopped 
every  moment  by  a  feeling  of  faintness.  He 
finds  her  presently  rocking  slowly  to  and  fro 
with  closed  eyes,  and  drops  a  leaf  with  three 
plums  in  it  on  to  her  lap. 

'*  I  have  been  watching  four  for  the  last  week, 
but  a  bird,  greedy  beggar,  got  one  this  morning 
early :  try  them.  Don't  you  mind,  old  girl,  I  '11 
pour  out  my  own  tea !  " 

She  bites  into  one  and  tries  to  finish  it,  but 
cannot.     **  You  are  a  good  old  man  !  "  she  says, 


40  KEYNOTES. 

and  the  tears  come  unbidden  to  her  eyes,  and 
trickle  down  her  cheeks,  dropping  on  to  the 
plums,  streaking  their  delicate  bloom. 

He  looks  uneasily  at  her,  but  does  n't  know 
what  to  do ;  and  when  he  has  finished  his  break- 
fast he  stoops  over  her  chair  and  strokes  her 
hair,  saying,  as  he  leaves  a  kiss  on  the  top  of 
her  head,  **  Come  out  into  the  air,  little  woman  ; 
do  you  a  world  of  good  !  '* 

And  presently  she  hears  the  sharp  thrust  of 
his  spade  above  the  bee's  hum,  leaf  rustle,  and 
the  myriad  late  summer  sounds  that  thrill 
through  the  air.  It  irritates  her  almost  to 
screaming  point;  there  is  a  practical  non-sym- 
pathy about  it;  she  can  distinguish  the  regular 
one,  two,  three,  the  thrust,  interval,  then  pat, 
pat,  on  the  upturned  sod.  To-day  she  wants 
some  one,  and  her  thoughts  wander  to,  and  she 
wonders  what,  the  gray-eyed  man  who  never 
misunderstands  her,  would  say  to  her.  Oh,  she 
wants  some  one  so  badly  to  soothe  her;  and 
she  yearns  for  the  little  mother  who  is  twenty 
years  under  the  daisies,  —  the  little  mother  who 
is  a  faint  memory  strengthened  by  a  daguerreo- 
type in  which  she  sits  with  silk-mittened  hands 
primly  crossed  on  the  lap  of  her  moire  gown. 


A   CROSS   LINE.  4I 

a  diamond  brooch  fastening  the  black-velvet 
ribbon  crossed  so  stiffly  over  her  lace  collar,  the 
shining  tender  eyes  looking  steadily  out,  and 
her  hair  In  the  fashion  of  fifty-six.  How  that 
spade  dominates  over  every  sound !  and  what  a 
sickening  pain  she  has,  an  odd  pain ;  she  never 
felt  It  before.  Supposing  she  were  to  die,  she 
tries  to  fancy  how  she  would  look  ;  they  would 
be  sure  to  plaster  her  curls  down.  He  might 
be  digging  her  grave  —  no,  it  Is  the  patch  where 
the  early  peas  grew,  the  peas  that  were  eaten 
with  the  twelve  weeks'  ducklings:  she  remem- 
bers them,  little  fluffy  golden  balls  with  waxen 
bills,  and  such  dainty  paddles,  —  remembers 
holding  an  egg  to  her  ear  and  listening  to  it 
cheep  inside  before  even  there  was  a  chip  in  the 
shell.  Strange  how  things  come  to  life  !  What ! 
she  sits  bolt  upright  and  holds  tightly  to  the 
chair,  and  a  questioning,  awesome  look  comes 
over  her  face  ;  and  then  the  quick  blood  creeps 
up  through  her  olive  skin  right  up  to  her 
temples,  and  she  buries  her  face  in  her  hands 
and  sits  so  a  long  time. 

The  maid  comes  In  and  watches  her  curiously, 
and  moves  softly  about.  The  look  in  her  eyes 
is  the  look  of  a  faithful  dog,  and  she  loves  her 


42  KEYNOTES. 

with  the  same  rare  fidehty.  She  hesitates,  then 
goes  into  the  bedroom  and  stands  thoughtfully, 
with  her  hands  clasped  over  her  breast.  She  is 
a  tall,  thin,  flat-waisted  woman,  with  misty  blue 
eyes  and  a  receding  chin.  Her  hair  is  pretty. 
She  turns  as  her  mistress  comes  in,  with  an 
expectant  look  on  her  face.  She  has  taken  up 
a  nightgown,  but  holds  it  idly. 

**  Lizzie,  had  you  ever  a  child?  " 

The  girl's  long  left  hand  is  ringless ;  yet  she 
asks  it  with  a  quiet  insistence,  as  if  she  knew 
what  the  answer  would  be,  and  her  odd  eyes 
read  her  face  with  an  almost  cruel  steadiness. 
The  girl  flushes  painfully,  and  then  whitens; 
her  very  eyes  seem  to  pale,  and  her  under  lip 
twitches  as  she  jerks  out  huskily,  — 

'*  Yes !  " 

**  What  happened  to  it?  '* 

''  It  died,  M'am." 

''  Poor  thing !     Poor  old  Liz  !  '* 

She  pats  the  girl's  hand  softly,  and  the  latter 
stands  dumbly  and  looks  down  at  both  hands, 
as  if  fearful  to  break  the  wonder  of  a  caress. 
She  whispers  hesitatingly,  — 

**  Have  you  —  have  you  any  little  things 
left?'* 


A   CROSS    LINE.  43 

And  she  laughs  such  a  soft,  cooing  little 
laugh,  like  the  chirring  of  a  ring-dove,  and 
nods  shyly  back  in  reply  to  the  tall  maid's 
questioning  look.  The  latter  goes  out,  and 
comes  back  with  a  flat,  red-painted  deal  box, 
and  unlocks  it.  It  does  not  hold  very  much, 
and  the  tiny  garments  are  not  of  costly  mate- 
rial; but  the  two  women  pore  over  them  as  a 
gem  collector  over  a  rare  stone.  She  has  a 
glimpse  of  thick-crested  paper  as  the  girl  unties 
a  packet  of  letters,  and  looks  away  until  she 
says  tenderly,  — 

"  Look,  M'am  !  '' 

A  little  bit  of  hair  inside  a  paper  heart.  It 
is  almost  white,  so  silky  and  so  fine  that  it  is 
more  like  a  thread  of  bog-wool  than  a  baby's 
hair ;  and  the  mistress,  who  is  a  wife,  puts  her 
arms  round  the  tall  maid,  who  has  never  had 
more  than  a  moral  claim  to  the  name,  and 
kisses  her  in  her  quick  way. 

The  afternoon  is  drawing  on ;  she  is  kneeling 
before  an  open  trunk,  with  flushed  cheeks  and 
sparkling  eyes.  A  heap  of  unused,  dainty  lace- 
trimmed  ribbon-decked  cambric  garments  are 
scattered  around  her.  She  holds  the  soft, 
scented  web  to  her  cheek  and  smiles  musingly; 


44  KEYNOTES. 

and  then  she  rouses  herself  and  sets  to  work, 
sorting  out  the  finest,  with  the  narrowest  lace 
and  tiniest  ribbon,  and  puckers  her  swarthy 
brows,  and  measures  lengths  along  her  middle 
finger,  and  then  gets  slowly  up,  as  if  careful  of 
herself  as  a  precious  thing,  and  half  afraid. 

**  Lizzie !  " 

'*  Yes,  M'am  !  " 

"  Was  n't  it  lucky  they  were  too  fine  for 
every  day?  They  will  be  so  pretty.  Look  at 
this  one  with  the  tiny  Valenciennes  edging. 
Why,  one  nightgown  will  make  a  dozen  little 
shirts,  —  such  elfin-shirts  as  they  are  too ;  and 
Lizzie !  " 

*^Yes,  M'am!  " 

**Just  hang  it  out  on  the  lilac-bush,  —  mind, 
the  lilac-bush !  " 

''  Yes,  M'am  !  '* 

"  Or,  Lizzie,  wait:  I  '11  do  it  myself!  " 


NOW   SPRING   HAS   COME. 

A  CONFIDENCE. 

"  When  the  spring-time  comes  ^  gentle  Annie^  and  the  flowers  are 

blossoming  on  the  plhin  I 
Lai,  lal^  la,  la,  la,  lallallalla,  laly  lal,  lal,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la. 
When  the  spring-time  comes,  gentle  Annie ^  and  the  mocking-bird 

is  singing  on  the  tree  !  '* 

**  I  don't  believe  that  mocking-bird  line  be- 
longs to  the  song  at  all,  Lizzie ;  you  never  do 
get  a  thing  right !  " 

The  words  have  a  partly  irritated,  partly 
contemptuous  tone,  that  seems  oddly  at  vari- 
ance with  the  size  of  the  child  who  utters  them. 
She  is  lying  flat  on  her  stomach  on  the  floor, 
resting  her  elbows  at  each  side  of  a  book  she  is 
reading,  holding  her  sharp  chin  in  the  palms  of 
her  hands,  waving  her  skinny  legs  in  uncon- 
scious time  to  the  half  tired,  half  feverish  lilt  of 
the  nurse  as  she  jogs  the  baby  in  time  to  the 
tune.  She  gazes,  as  she  speaks,  at  the  girl  with 
a  pair  of  unusually  bright,  penetrating  eyes. 
This  mocking-bird  line  never  fails  to  annoy  her. 


46  KEYNOTES. 

*'  Troth,  an  if  I  cud  get  the  young  limb  to 
slape  I  would  n't  care  if  'twas  mockin'-birds  or 
torn  cats !  "  is  the  indifferent  answer. 

Strange  how  some  trivial  thing  will  jog  a 
link  in  a  chain  of  association,  and  set  it  vibrat- 
ing until  it  brings  one  face  to  face  with  scenes 
and  people  long  forgotten  in  some  prison  cell 
in  one's  brain ;  calling  to  new  life  a  red-haired 
girl,  with  sherry-brown  eyes,  and  a  flat  back, 
pacing  a  nursery  floor  in  impatient  endeavor 
to  get  a  fractious  child  to  sleep,  —  ay,  her  very 
voice  and  her  persistent  mixing  of  mocking- 
birds and  spring-time.  So  muses  the  child  twenty 
years  after,  as,  past  her  first  youth,  with  only 
the  eyes  and  the  smile  unchanged,  she  lies  on  a 
bear-skin  before  the  fire  on  a  chilly  evening  in 
late  spring,  and  goes  over  a  recent  experience. 
A  half  humorous  smile,  with  a  tinge  of  mockery 
in  it,  plays  round  her  lips  as  she  says,  — 

**  Twenty  years  ago.  Queer  how  it  should  fit 
in  after  all  that  time  ! 

*'  Tell  you  how  it  was  ?  That  is  not  very  easy ; 
pathos  may  become  bathos  in  the  telling.  Let 
me  see.     Of  course  it  was  chance,  —  or  is  there 


NOW   SPRING   HAS   COME.  47 

any  such  thing  as  chance?  Say  fate,  instead. 
The  three  old  ladies  who  spin  our  destinies 
were  in  want  of  amusement,  so  they  pitched 
on  me.  They  sent  their  messenger  to  me  in 
the  guise  of  a  paper-backed  novel  with  a  taking 
name.  I  was  waiting  in  a  shop  for  some  papers 
I  had  ordered,  when  it  struck  me.  I  took  it  up. 
The  author  was  unknown  to  me.  I  opened  it 
at  haphazard,  and  a  line  caught  me.  I  read  on. 
I  was  roused  by  the  bookseller's  suave  voice, — 

**  *  That  is  a  very  bad  book.  Madam.  One  of 
the  modern  realistic  school,  a  tendenz  roman,  I 
would  not  advise  Madam  to  read  it.' 

"  '  A-ah,  indeed  !  ' 

**  I  laid  it  down  and  left  the  shop.  But  the 
words  I  had  read  kept  dancing  before  me;  I 
saw  them  written  across  the  blue  of  the  sky, 
in  the  sun  streaks  on  the  pavement,  and  the 
luminous  delicacy  of  the  Norwegian  summer 
nights  ;  they  were  impressed  on  my  brain  in 
vivid  color,  glowing,  blushing  with  ardor  as 
they  were.  Weeks  passed  ;  one  afternoon,  time 
hung  heavily  on  my  hands,  and  I  sent  for  the 
book.  I  read  all  that  afternoon  ;  let  the  telling 
words,  the  passionate  pain,  the  hungry  yearning, 
all  the  tragedy  of  a  man's  soul-strife  with  evil 


48  KEYNOTES. 

and  destiny,  sorrow  and  sin,  bite  into  my 
sentient  being.  When  the  book  was  finished, 
I  was  consumed  with  a  desire  to  see  and  know 
the  author.  I  never  reasoned  that  the  whole 
struggle  might  be  only  an  extraordinarily  clever 
intuitive  analysis  of  a  possible  experience.  I 
accepted  it  as  real,  and  I  wanted  to  help  this 
man.  I  longed  to  tell  him  in  his  loneliness  that 
one  human  being,  and  that  one  a  woman,  had 
courage  to  help  him.  The  abstract  ego  of  the 
novel  haunted  me.  I  have  a  will  of  my  own, 
so  I  set  to  work  to  find  him.  .  It  was  not  so 
easy.  None  of  my  acquaintances  knew  him,  or 
of  him  ;  he  was  a  strange  meteor  ;  and  as  the  book 
was  condemned  by  the  orthodox,  I  had  to  feel 
my  way  cautiously. 

"  Is  n't  it  dreadful  to  think  what  slaves  we  are 
to  custom?  I  wonder  shall  we  ever  be  able  to 
tell  the  truth,  ever  be  able  to  live  fearlessly 
according  to  our  own  light,  to  believe  that  what 
is  right  for  us  must  be  right !  It  seems  as  if 
all  the  religions,  all  the  advancement,  all  the 
culture  of  the  past,  has  only  been  a  forging  of 
chains  to  cripple  posterity,  a  laborious  build- 
ing up  of  moral  and  legal  prisons  based 
on    false    conceptions    of   sin    and    shame,    to 


NOW   SPRING   HAS   COME.  49 

cramp  men's  minds  and  hearts  and  souls,  not 
to  speak  of  women's.  What  half  creatures  we 
are,  we  women! — hermaphrodite  by  force  of 
circumstances,  deformed  results  of  a  fight  of 
centuries  between  physical  suppression  and 
natural  impulse  to  fulfil  our  destiny.  Every 
social  revolution  has  told  hardest  on  us :  when 
a  sacrifice  was  demanded,  let  woman  make  it. 
And  yet  there  are  men,  and  the  best  of  them, 
who  see  all  this,  and  would  effect  a  change  if 
they  knew  how.  Why  it  came  about?  Because 
men  manufactured  an  artificial  morality  ;  made 
sins  of  things  that  were  as  clean  in  themselves 
as  the  pairing  of  birds  on  the  wing  ;  crushed 
nature,  robbed  it  of  its  beauty  and  meaning, 
and  established  a  system  that  means  war,  and 
always  war,  because  it  is  a  struggle  between 
instinctive  truths  and  cultivated  lies.  Yes,  I 
know  I  speak  hotly;  but  my  heart  burns  in  me 
sometimes,  and  I  hate  myself.  It 's  a  bad  thing 
when  a  man  or  woman  has  a  contempt  for 
himself.  There 's  nothing  like  a  good  dose  of 
love-fever  (in  other  words,  a  waking  to  the  fact 
that  one  is  a  higher  animal,  with  a  destiny  to 
fulfil)  to  teach  one  self-knowledge,  to  give  one 
a  glimpse  into  the  contradictory  issues  of  one's 
4 


so  ,  KEYNOTES. 

individual  nature.  Study  yourself,  and  what 
will  you  tind?  Just  what  I  did,  —  the  weak,  the 
inconsequent,  the  irresponsible.  In  one  word, 
the  untrue  feminine  is  of  man's  making;  while 
the  strong,  the  natural,  the  true  womanly  is  of 
God's  making.  It  is  easy  to  read  as  a  primer ; 
but   how   change    it?     Go  back   to    any   poet! 

*'  Well,  at  length  an  old  bookseller  I  knew 
gave  me  surer  information.  My  intuition  was 
not  at  fault :  the  experiences  were  wrung  from 
the  man's  soul.  As  the  old  superstition  has  it, 
a  dagger  dipped  in  a  man's  heart-blood  will 
always  strike  home ;  so  no  wonder  they  pierced 
me  with  their  passion,  despair,  and  brave  endur- 
ance. What  the  old  fellow  wrote  to  him  I 
know  not,  but  I  got  an  unconventional  pretty 
letter  from  him,  and  it  ended  in  our  writing  to 
each  other.  As  my  time  to  leave  drew  near, 
the  desire  to  see  him  became  overpowering.  I 
could  afford  it;  he  could  not.  It  ended  in  our 
arranging  to  meet  at  a  little  town  on  the  coast. 

"  It  is  strange  how  the  idea  of  a  person  one 
has  never  seen  can  possess  one  as  completely 
as  this  did  me.  I,  whom,  as  you  know,  think 
as  little  of  starting  alone  for,  say,  Mexico,  as 
another  woman  of  going  to  afternoon  tea;   who 


NOW   SPRING   HAS   COME.  5 1 

have  trotted  the  globe  without  male  assistance^ 
—  felt  as  tremulously  stirred  as  at  confirmation 
day.  There  are  days  that  stand  out  in  the  gal- 
lery of  one's  remembrances  clean-painted  as  a 
Van  Hooge,  with  a  sharp  clearness. 

^^  I  slept  on  board,  and  early  the  next  morning, 
it  was  Sunday,  I  stood  on  deck  watching  the 
coast  as  we  glided  through  the  water  that  danced 
in  delicious  September  sunshine.  I  was  happily 
expectant.  At  dinner  hour  we  passed  a  fjord, 
a  lovely  deep-blue  fjord,  winding  to  our  right 
as  we  passed,  with  the  spire  of  a  church  just 
visible  among  the  fir-trees  round  the  bend. 
Boats  of  all  kinds,  from  a  smart  cutter  to  a 
pram  were  coming  out  after  the  service.  The 
white  sails  swelled  as  they  caught  the  breeze, 
flapped  as  they  tacked,  hung  listlessly  a  second, 
and  then  dashed  with  a  swerve,  like  swift  snowy- 
winged  birds,  through  the  water.  I  had  not 
troubled  with  church-going  of  late  years.  Why? 
Oh,  speculation,  weariness  of  soul  that  found  no 
drop  of  consolation  in  religious  observance, — 
maybe  that  might  be  the  reason.  But  all  those 
honest,  simple  folk  in  their  Sunday  bravery,  fair- 
haired  girls  with  their  psalm-books  wrapped  up 
in  their  only  silk  kerchief,  the  ring  of  laughter 


52  KEYNOTES. 

echoing  across  the  water,  the  magic  of  sun  and 
sky,  mountain  and  fjord,  made  me  feel  that  I 
too  was  church-going,  and  I  felt  strangely 
happy.  It  is  the  off  moments  that  we  do  not 
count  as  playing  any  part  in  our  lives  that  are. 
after  all,  the  best  we  have.  I  am  afraid  it  would 
be  impossible  to  make  you  see  things  as  I  felt 
them. 

"  I  went  up  to  the  hotel  when  I  landed.  I 
had  the  reputation  of  riches ;  the  hotel  was  at 
my  service.  I  inquire  for  him,  go  down  to  my 
sitting-room,  send  him  my  card,  and  wait.  I 
wait  with  an  odd  feeling  that  I  am  outside  my- 
self, watching  myself  as  it  were.  I  can  see  the 
very  childishness  of  my  figure,  the  too  slight 
hips  and  bust,  the  flash  of  rings  on  my  fingers, 
—  they  are  pressed  against  my  heart,  for  it  is 
beating  hatefully,  —  ay,  the  very  expectant  side- 
poise  of  head  is  visible  to  me  some  way.  It 
flashes  across  me  as  I  stand  that  so  might  a 
slave  wait  for  the  coming  of  a  new  master,  and 
I  laugh  at  myself  for  my  want-wit  agitation. 
A  knock. 

*'*Come  in!' 

**The  door  opens,  and  I  am  satisfied.  In  the 
space  of  a  second's  gaze  I  meet  what  my  soul 


NOW   SPRING   HAS   COME.  53 

has  been  waiting  for,  ah,  how  long!  I  think 
always.  Have  I  lived  before  in  some  other 
life  that  no  surprise  touches  me?  —  that  it  is 
just  as  if  I  am  only  meeting  the  embodiment  of 
a  disintegrated  floating  image  that  has  often 
flashed  before  my  consciousness,  and  flown 
before  I  could  fix  it?  Has  this  man,  or  some 
psychical  part  of  this  man,  been  in  touch  with 
me  before,  or  how  is  it  ?  I  stand  still  and  stretch 
out  my  hand ;  I  check  an  impulse  to  put  out 
both,  I  feel  so  tremulously  happy.  I  know 
before  he  speaks  how  his  voice  will  sound,  what 
his  touch  will  be  like  before  he  clasps  my  hand. 
It  is  odd  how  the  most  important  crisis  of  our 
lives  often  comes  upon  us  in  the  most  common- 
place way.  It  is  the  fashion  to  decry  love; 
yet  the  vehemence  of  the  denials,  the  keenness 
of  the  weapons  of  satire  and  scepticism  that 
are  turned  against  it  only  prove  its  existence. 
As  long  as  man  is  man  and  woman  is  woman, 
it  will  be  to  them  at  some  time  the  sweetest  and 
possibly  the  most  -fatal  interest  in  life  to  them. 
Thrust  it  aside  for  ambition  or  gain,  slight  it  as 
you  will,  sooner  or  later  it  will  have  its  revenge. 
I  had  felt  no  breath  of  it  as  maid,  wife,  or 
widow;    my  heart  had    been  a  free,  wild,  shy 


S4  KEYNOTES. 

thing,  jessed  by  my  will.  Sometimes,  by  way 
of  experiment,  I  let  it  fly  to  some  one  for  an 
hour,  but  always  to  call  it  back  again  to  my 
own  safe  keeping.     Now  it  left  me. 

'*We  sat  and  talked,  —  rather  I  talked,  I 
think,  and  he  listened.  He  said  my  going  to 
see  him  even  on  literary  grounds  was  eccentric ; 
but  then  it  seemed  I  had  a  way  of  doing  as  I 
pleased  without  exciting  much  comment.  How 
did  he  know  that  ?  Oh,  he  had  heard  it !  Was 
I  really  going  away?  How  tiresome  it  was, 
really  awfully  tiresome !  What  was  he  like  ? 
Well,  an  American  bison  or  a  lion.  You  might 
put  his  head  among  the  rarest  and  handsomest 
heads  in  the  world.  Prejudiced  in  his  favor? 
No,  not  a  bit.  His  hands,  for  instance,  are 
great  laborer's  hands,  freckled  too ;  I  don't  like 
his  gait  either,  —  indeed,  a  dozen  things.  What  we 
talked  about  ?  Well,  as  I  said,  he  listened  mostly ; 
laughed  with  a  great  joyous  boyish  laugh, 
with  a  deep  musical  note  in  it.  He  has  a  def- 
erential manner  and  a  very  caressing  smile ;  a 
trick,  too,  of  throwing  back  his  head  and  toss- 
ing his  crest  of  hair.  Why  he  laughed?  Well, 
I  suppose  I  made  him.  I  told  him  all  about 
myself;     turned    myself  inside    out,   good    and 


NOW   SPRING   HAS   COME.  55 

bad  alike,  as  one  might  the  pocket  of  an  old 
gown;  laughed  at  my  own  expense,  hid  noth- 
ing. An  extraordinary  thing  to  do,  was  it  ? 
I  suppose  it  was ;  but  the  whole  thing  was 
rather  unusual.  He  got  up  and  walked  about, 
sometimes  he  thrust  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  exclaimed,  *  The  Deuce  !  *  etc.  I  fancy  he 
learned  a  good  deal  about  me  in  a  few  hours. 
You  see  it  was  not  as  if  one  were  talking  to  a 
stranger ;  it  was  as  if  one  had  met  part  of  one's 
self  one  had  lost  for  a  long  time,  and  was  filling 
up  the  gaps  made  during  the  absence.  You 
can't  understand.  I  think  we  were  both  very 
happy.  He  admired  —  no,  that  is  not  the 
word ;  he  was  taken  with  me,  that  is  better. 
He  said  my  hands  were  *  as  small  as  a  child's;  * 
the  tablecloth  was  dark-red  plush  that  made  a 
good  background.  He  pointed  timidly,  as  a 
great  shy  boy  might,  to  one  of  my  rings ;  you 
see  they  don't  as  a  rule  wear  many  rings  up 
there;  I  suppose  they  gave  an  impression  of 
wealth.  *  That  one  is  very  beautiful !  '  I 
laughed ;  I  was  so  glad  my  hands  were  pretty, 
—  pretty  hands  last  so  much  longer  than  a 
pretty  face.  I  laughed  too  at  his  finger,  it  had 
such  a  deferential  expression  about  it;  and  I 


56  KEYNOTES. 

called  him  a  great  child.  I  think  we  were  both 
like  two  great  children ;  we  had  found  a  com- 
mon interest  to  rejoice  in,  —  we  had  found  our- 
selves. Every  moment  was  delightful ;  we  were 
making  discoveries,  finding  we  had  had  like 
experiences,  —  had  both  hungered,  both  known 
want,  were  both  of  an  age ;  we  were  both  un- 
conventional, and  were  shaking  hands  mentally 
all  the  time.  I  don't  remember  now  what  it 
was  he  said ;  but  I  remember  I  was  obliged  to 
drop  my  head,  and  I  felt  I  was  smiling  from 
sheer,  delicious  pleasure.  He  cried  laughingly: 
*  You  say  I  am  a  great  child,  you  are  a  child 
yourself  when  you  smile !  ' 

**  He  was  to  have  supper  with  me,  and  he  went 
away  for  an  hour.  After  he  left  I  walked  over 
to  a  long  mirror  and  looked  at  myself.  Tried 
to  fancy  how  he  saw  me,  —  that  might  be  differ- 
ent, you  know.  I  had  color,  life,  eyes  like 
stars,  trembling,  smiling  lips.  There  was  some- 
thing quivering,  alert  about  me;  I  scarce  knew 
myself  Of  course  the  same  hips,  figure,  feat- 
ures were  reflected  there,  —  it  was  something 
shining  through  that  struck  me  as  foreign.  Do 
you  know  what  I  did  ?  I  danced  all  round  the 
room.     Shows  what  an  idiot  an  old  woman  can 


NOW   SPRING   HAS   COME.  57 

be.  By  the  way,  he  denied  that  I  was  old  ;  I 
was  like  a  little  girl,  but  a  remarkable  little 
girl;  no  wonder  people  always  noticed  me,  as  if 
I  were  a  somebody.  How  did  he  know  that? 
Oh,  he  had  heard  it,  for  that  matter  seen  it  too, 
at  the  pier.  He  knew  the  moment  I  stepped 
off  the  boat  that  it  was  I.  Yes,  people  always 
stared  at  me,  but  how  could  he  know?  Ah! 
presentiment  perhaps.  So  he  was  on  the  pier? 
Why  did  he  not  come  and  meet  me?  No  legible 
answer,  but  a  slow  reddening  up  to  the  roots 
of  his  fair  hair.  I  do  not  know  quite  how  he 
conveyed  it,  but  I  had  the  sensation,  a  charm- 
ing one,   of  being  treated    as   a   queen. 

''  But  to  go  back.  I  sat  or  rather  lay  in  an 
arm-chair  at  the  window,  and  watched  the  water 
and  the  ships.  It  was  getting  dusk,  the  lumi- 
nous dusk  of  the  north,  as  if  a  soft  transparent 
purple  veil  is  being  dropped  gently  over  the 
world.  The  fjord  was  full  of  lights  from  the 
different  crafts  at  anchor,  and  the  heaven  full  of 
stars;  and  the  longer  one  looked  up  there,  the 
more  one  saw  myriads  of  flimmering  eyes  of 
light,  until  one's  brain  seemed  fullof  their  bright- 
ness, and  one  forgot  one's  body  in  gazing.  Long 
silvery  streaks   glistened    through   the   heaving 


58  KEYNOTES. 

water  like  the  flash  of  feeding  trout,  and  lads  and 
lassies  in  boats  rowed  to  and  fro,  and  human 
vibration  seemed  to  thrill  from  them,  filling  the 
atmosphere  with  man  and  woman.  And  the 
silken  air  caressed  my  face  as  the  touch  of  cool, 
soft  fingers.  I  had  a  feeling  of  perfect  well- 
being  ;  one  does  not  get  many  such  moments 
in  one's  life,  does  one?  I  think  I  just  was 
happy,  rehearsing  the  hours  that  flew  too 
quickly,  recalling  every  look,  tone,  gesture,  and 
smile.  The  jomfru  came  in  to  lay  the  table ; 
she  knew  me  from  a  previous  visit  and  began  to 
talk  ;  but  I  wanted  to  be  alone  with  my  thoughts ; 
so  I  went  upstairs,  washed  my  hands  and  pufl*ed 
them  with  sweet  smelling  powder,  and  then 
when  I  went  down  again  and  sat  and  waited 
I  clasped  them  up  over  my  head  to  make 
them  white.  He  came  back,  flung  his  hat  on 
the  sofa  out  of  sheer  boyish  delight  at  being 
back,  came  over  and  stood  and  looked  down  at 
me,  and  I  laughed  up  to  him.  If  I  were  to  talk 
until  Doomsday,  I  could  not  make  you  under- 
stand what  I  cannot  yet  understand  myself 

'*  After  supper,  at  which  I  sipped  my  tea 
and  watched  him,  we  sat  at  the  window  and 
looked  out  at  the  purple  world.     I  had  told  him 


NOW   SPRING   HAS   COME.  59 

he  might  smoke.  Well  ?  Well,  we  talked,  and 
we  talked  when  we  were  both  silent;  and  he,  I 
mean  his  thinking  self,  came  to  me;  and  I  — 
well,  I  believe  from  the  moment  he  came  into 
the  room,  all  the  best  of  me  went  straight  to 
him.  The  lights  out  in  the  harbor  twinkled,  a 
star  fell,  and  I  wished  —  well,  wishes  are  foolish. 
I  think  he  must  have  been  watching  my  face,  for 
when  our  eyes  met,  he  smiled  as  if  he  under- 
stood. Sometimes  he  jumped  up  and  stood 
rocking  a  chair  backward  and  forward.  He  was 
sorry  I  was  going  away!  Yes?  Oh,  we  might 
meet  again  !  That  might  be  difficult !  Indeed? 
I  should  have  thought  /le  would  be  the  last 
person  in  the  world  to  say  it  was  difficult  to 
meet.  He  laughed  at  that,  with  a  quick  side- 
long look  he  has,  like  a  Finn  dog,  and  said  I 
was  sharp,  awfully  sharp,  as  if  he  liked  being 
caught.  By  the  way,  he  occasionally  used 
strong  language  ;  said  I  must  forgive  him,  he 
was  n't  very  used  to  ladies'   society. 

"  At  ten  I  said  I  would  say  good-night  for 
conventionality's  sake.  He  begged,  humbly  it 
struck  me,  for  a  little  longer.  I  was  to  leave  by 
the  steamer  at  eight  in  the  morning,  would  be 
down  at  seven ;   he  might  come  to  me.     Would 


60  KEYNOTES. 

I  give  him  a  portrait  of  myself  ?  Yes,  I  would 
get  one  specially  done.  As  much  in  profile  as 
possible,  he  thought  that  would  be  happier. 
Yes.  He  came  to  the  top  of  the  stairs  with  me, 
and  when  we  bade  good-night  he  took  my  hand 
and  held  it  curiously  as  if  it  were  something 
fearfully^  fragile,  and  stood  and  watched  me 
down  the  corridor.  And  will  you  credit  it?  I 
felt  inclined  to  run  like  an  awkward  little  school- 
girl. I  said  prayers  that  night ;  thanked  God, 
I  don't  quite  know  what  for,  —  I  suppose  I  did 
then, —  perhaps  for  being  happy.  I  looked  at 
my  foreign  self  in  the  glass  too,  and  when  the 
light  was  out —  Yes? —  I  did  what  you  and 
every  other  woman  might  do,  I  cuddled  my  face 
to  an  imaginary  face,  rubbed  my  cheek  to  an 
imaginary  cheek,  whispered  a  God  bless  you  ! 
and  fell  asleep. 

*'  1  was  down  before  seven,  paid  my  bill,  and 
sat  waiting,  with  the  little  tray,  with  its  thick 
white  cups  and  lumpy  yellow  cream,  before  me. 
He  came,  —  such  a  glad  man,  with  glad  eyes, 
glad  smile,  and  outstretched  hands.  And  I,  — 
I  was  so  glad,  too,  that  I  could  have  shouted 
out  for  very  joy  of  living.  I  might  have  been 
drinking  some  magic  elixir  instead  of  coffee. 


NOW  SPRING   HAS   COME.  6l 

"  *  It  is  tiresome  !  '  he  said  impatiently. 

"*What  is  tiresome?  You  have  said  that  so 
often.' 

*' '  It  is  tiresome  when  a  person  one  wants  so 
badly  to  keep  in  the  country  is  going  out 
of  it' 

"  *  Supposing  I  were  to  stay  in  it,  you  would 
probably  be  in  one  place  and  I  in  another.  It 
is  only  a  question  of  a  little  dearer  postage  !  * 

*'  We  both  laughed  at  that.  It  takes  such  a 
little  thing  to  make  one  laugh  when  one  is 
happy.  Then  the  steamer  came  in  sight,  and 
we  walked  down  through  the  bright  morning  to 
the  pier,  and  went  on  board.  He  stood  silently; 
we  only  looked  at  each  other.  It  did  not  then 
strike  me  as  odd  —  it  does  now.  The  first  bell 
rang !  I  felt  a  chill  steal  over  me.  *  It  is  tire- 
some, it  is  hateful !  '  His  smile  had  flown  ;  and 
old  deep  lines  and  traces  of  past  suffering  I  had 
not  noticed  before  showed  plainly. 

''  '  I  will  come  back,'  I  said,  '  when  the  winter 
is  over !  ' 

''  '  Ay,  but  winter  is  long,  or  it  used  to  be !  * 

**  *  No  matter,  I  will  come  with  the  spring !  ' 

*'  The  second  bell  rang  !  Ah,  why  can't  we 
do  as  our  hearts  bid  us?     We  have  one  short 


62  KEYNOTES. 

life,  and  It  is  spoiled  by  chains  of  our  own 
forging  in  deference  to  narrow  custom.  I 
shivered.  There  was  after  all  an  autumn  chill 
in  the  air.  I  hate  the  sound  of  a  steamer  bell 
now.  .  .  .  The  third  bell !  We  turn,  and  I 
tighten  my  small  fingers  in  his  great  hand,  and 
I  say  good-by  and  God  bless  you !  Not  from 
a  purely  religious  conception  of  God,  unless  it 
be  that  God  (and  I  think  it  does)  means  all  that 
is  good  and  beautiful,  tender  and  best.  I  might 
have  said,  *  The  best  I  can  think  of  befall  you  !  * 
A  second  later,  and  the  streamer  rail  separates 
us !  I  look  into  his  soul  through  his  eyes,  and 
see  it  is  sorry,  regretful,  —  as  sorry  as  I  am  glad 
it  is  so  :  he  is  sorry  I  am  going  from  him,  and 
in  that  short  concentrated  gaze  his  soul  comes 
to  me  as  I  would  have  it  come  to  me. 

"  *  When  spring  comes  I  '  I  whisper  as  I  lean 
over  to  him,  while  the  steamer  glides  out.  He 
follows  it  to  the  end  of  the  pier,  and  stands 
there  as  long  as  we  are  in  sight.  If  he  had 
held  out  his  arms  and  said,  *  Woman,  stay  with 
me  !  '  I  would,  I  fear,  have  jumped  down  and 
stayed.  Didn't  know  anything  about  him? 
No,  that  is  true,  only  that  I  had  been  waiting 
for  something  ever  since  I  was  old   enough  to 


NOW   SPRING   HAS   COME.  63 

have  a  want,  and  that  he  was  that  something; 
that  I  was  nearly  thirty  when  I  found  him,  and 

—  Hfe  is  short ! 

'*  I  was  so  glad,  in  spite  of  leaving  him,  that  I 
believe  I  thought  the  sun  shone  differently.  I 
almost  asked  some  people  on  deck  if  they  did 
not  think  that  the  day  was  quite  the  loveliest 
day  ever  dawned  since  the  world  was  a  world ; 
if  there  was  not  something  peculiarly  and 
singularly  delicious  in  the  very  air?  I  found  a 
quiet  sofa,  and  lay  with  closed  eyes,  and  lived 
it  over  again. 

"  The  rest  is  more  difficult  to  tell  you.  I  was 
insanely  happy,  then  I  was  intensely  miserable. 
I  sent  him  my  portrait  and  a  letter,  and  counted 
the  days  and  the  hours  to  a  reply.  It  came. 
I  stole  away  to  read  all  the  warm  meaning  ill 
concealed  under  the  words  of  it;  slept  with  it 
under  my  pillow,  carried  it  in  my  bosom,  and 
answered  it  straight  from  my  heart.  Why  try 
and  tell  you  of  the  aftertime?  I  would  not  go 
through  that  winter  again  for  anything  in  the 
world.     Hope,  fear,  suspense,  joy,  despondency, 

—  all  the  strongest  feelings  that  can  torture  or 
wear  out  a  heart  were  mine.  I  longed  to  be 
up  on  a  high  mountain   alone  with  my  dream. 


64  KEYNOTES. 

I  wonder  does  a  man  ever  realize  the  beauty- 
there  is  in  a  woman's  thought  of  him !  What 
kind  were  the  letters?  Warm,  passionate,  yet 
with  a  reservatio  mentalis  that  hurt  me,  but 
always  with  a  '  When  spring  comes !  '  in  them. 
It  is  amazing  to  what  depths  of  folly  a  human 
being  can  descend  !  I  had  his  photograph  on 
my  table;  I  greeted  it  as  a  Russian  peasant 
his  household  saint.  It  would  be  hard  to 
find  my  match  in  idiocy.  I  felt  a  letter  coming, 
and  waited  with  strained  ears  and  fever-racked 
nerves  for  the  postman's  knock.  Do  you  know 
there  is  something  touchingly  pitiful  in  the  way 
one  finds  out  all  the  tender  bits  in  a  letter  and 
re-reads  them?  I  have  kissed  a  thumb-mark 
on  the  paper  !  Heavens,  how  the  days  dragged  ! 
I  was  ill  with  yearning  thought;  night  brought 
no  rest  but  the  comfort  of  being  alone ;  all  the 
years  of  my  life  were  not  as  long  as  that  weary 
winter.  Sleep  fled,  and  nervous  pain  took  its 
place.  It  was  foolish,  exceedingly  foolish, 
because  it  was  fatal  to  my  looks.  At  the  rare 
times  I  looked  at  myself  I  got  a  glimpse  of  a 
thin,  waxen,  yellow  face  with  dark-ringed  eyes, 
and  I  was  certainly  older  looking.  Thinking 
of  it  all  dispassionately,  I  am   inclined  to  think 


NOW   SPRING   HAS   COME.  65 

I  was  hysterical.  How  many  of  the  follies  and 
frailties  of  women  are  really  due  to  hysterical 
rather  than  moral  irresponsibility  is  a  question. 
You  see  there  is  no  time  of  sowing  wild  oats 
for  women;  we  repress  and  repress,  and  then 
some  day  we  stumble  on  the  man  who  just 
satisfies  our  sexual  and  emotional  nature,  and 
then  there  is  shipwreck  of  some  sort.  When 
we  shall  live  larger  and  freer  lives  we  shall  be 
better  balanced  than  we  are  now.  If  what  I 
suffered  is  love,  all  I  can  say  is  I  would  not  ask 
a  better  sample  of  conventional  hell's  pain. 
Hu-s-sh  !  Very  well,  I  won't  say  those  things  ! 

*'  It  is  bad  enough  to  be  a  fool  and  not  to 
know  it ;  but  to  be  a  fool  and  feel  with  every 
fibre  of  your  being,  every  shred  of  your  under- 
standing, that  you  are  one,  and  that  there  is  no 
help  for  it;  that  all  your  philosophy  won't  aid 
you ;  that  you  are  one  great  want,  stilled  a  little 
by  a  letter,  only  to  be  haunted  afresh  by  the 
personality  of  another  creature,  tortured  with 
doubts  and  hurt  by  your  loss  of  self-respect,  — 
ah !  it  was  a  long  winter !  Then  the  New  Year 
came  and  went,  and  time  dragged  slowly  but 
surely,  and  at  length  the  Almanacs  said  it  was 
spring-time,  and  the  girls  at  the  street  corners 
5 


66  KEYNOTES. 

called,  *  Vilets,  sweet  vilets !  *  and  the  milliners 
marked  down  guinea  bonnets  to  I2s.  lid.,  and 
I  watched  each  token  of  its  coming  with  a  fear- 
some, joyous  expectation —  Go  on?  Ah,  yes, 
I'll  go  on,  —  where  was  I?  Oh,  spring  was 
coming,  was  n't  it?  I  do  not  laugh  as  I  used  to, 
eh?  How  used  I  to  laugh?  I  forget.  Well,  I 
won't  laugh  if  it  hurts  you,  dear,  not  even  at 
myself. 

*'  Well,  once  again,  I  was  standing  at  a  table 
in  a  hotel  room,  waiting.  It  is  the  simple 
things  that  are  so  hard  to  describe,  and  that 
are  most  complicated  in  their  effects.  I  said 
again,  '  Come  in !  '  held  fast  to  the  table  with 
my  left  hand  and  smiled, — to  be  accurate,  be- 
gan a  smile.  Spring  is  later  up  there ;  perhaps 
some  of  the  winter's  frost  was  still  in  the 
atmosphere,  for  something  froze  it  on  my  lips. 
I  felt  a  curious  stiffening  in  my  face,  and  the 
touch  of  his  hand  did  not  thaw  me.  Feel 
happy?  No;  I  was  numb  in  one  way,  and  yet 
keenly  alive  to  impressions.  I  felt  as  if  my 
nerve  net  was  outside  my  skin,  not  under  it, 
and  that  the  exposure  to  the  air  and  surround- 
ing influences  made  it  intensely,  acutely  sensi- 
tive.    I  seemed  to  see  with  my  sense  of  feeling 


NOW  SPRING  HAS   COME.  6/ 

as  well  as  my  sight.  You  know  how  in  great 
cold  you  seem  to  burn  your  hand  w^ith  an  icy 
heat  if  you  suddenly  grasp  a  piece  of  iron? 
Well,  I  felt  some  way  I  was  touched  by  glowing 
shivers  :  that  sounds  nonsense,  but  it  expresses 
the  feeling.  Why?  I  don't  know  why:  I  was 
analyzing,  being  analyzed  ;  criticising,  being 
critised.  It  was  all  so  different,  you  see.  Sup- 
posing you  had  just  sipped  a  beaker  of  exhil- 
arating, life-giving,  rich  wine  with  an  exquisite 
bouquet,  and  a  glow  that  steals  through  you  and 
witches  and  warms  you ;  and  suddenly,  without 
your  knowing  how  it  happens,  the  draught  is 
transformed  into  luke-warm  water,  or  *  Polly ' 
without  the  'dash'  in  it!  What  did  he  say? 
Let  me  think.  Oh,  yes  :  I  was  wretchedly  thin. 
Odd  how  things  strike  one.  I  once  saw  a  re- 
presentation of  Holberg's  Stundeslose  in  Cop- 
enhagen. One  of  the  characters  is  an  ancient 
housekeeper,  with  a  long  money-bag,  who  is, 
as  they  term  it,  *  marriage-sick.'  A  match  is 
arranged  between  her  and  a  young  spark  in 
the  village.  The  scene  is  this :  while  the  mone- 
tary part  of  the  affair  is  being  arranged  by  the 
notary,  etc.,  he  says  to  her,  —  *  Permit  me  to 
pass  my  hand  over  your  bosom,  mistress?  '    She 


68  KEYNOTES. 

simpers;  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  comical 
expression  of  dismay  with  which  the  suitor  rolls 
his  eyes  and  drops  his  jaw  as  he  turns  aside. 
I  felt  rather  than  saw  the  comprehensive  look 
which  accompanied  his  comment  on  my  thin- 
ness, and  that  scene  flashed  across  my  inner 
vision.  Odd,  was  it  not?  A  sort  of  sympa- 
thetic after-comprehension.  It  was  as  if  I,  too, 
were  having  a  hand  passed  across  the  flatness 
of  my  figure. 

**  *  Yes,  I  have  got  thin.'  Silence.  Had  I 
been  very  ill?  Yes,  very!  Was  that  why  I 
was  so  pale?  It  was  fearful,  —  not  a  tinge  of 
warm  color  in  my  face  ;  one  would  be  afraid  to 
touch  me.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  being  toted  up : 
item,  so  much  color  ;  item,  so  much  flesh.  Had 
I  been  worried?  I  had  lost  that  buoyant  child- 
ishness that  was  so  attractive.  Ah,  yes,  I  had 
dwelt  too  much  on  a  trouble  I  had.  Did  I  sleep? 
Not  much.  That  was  foolish.  I  ought  to  eat 
plenty,  too.  I  looked  as  if  I  did  n't  eat  enough  ; 
my  eyes  and  cheeks  were  hollowed  out.  Ah, 
yes,  no  doubt  I  did  look  older  than  in  autumn  ! 
I  was  not  contradicted.  I  would  have  told  a 
little  lie  to  spare  a  man's  feelings.  Men  are 
perhaps  more  conscientious. 


NOW   SPRING   HAS   COME.  69 

**  What  else?  I  am  rehearsing  it  all  as  best 
I  can.  Oh,  my  hands  were  altered  ;  he  thought 
they  were  not  so  small,  eh?  Might  be  my 
wrists  were  less  round,  that  made  a  difference. 
Did  it  .'*  They  certainly  were  larger,  and  not 
so  white.  Did  he  kiss  me  ?  Oh,  yes.  You  see 
I  wanted  to  sift  this  thing  thoroughly,  to  get 
clear  into  my  head  what  ground  I  was  stand- 
ing on.  So  I  let  him.  They  were  merely 
lip-kisses;  his  spirit  did  not  come  to  mine, 
and  I  was  simply  analyzing  them  all  the  time. 
Did  I  not  feel  anything  ?  Yes,  I  did,  —  deeply 
hurt;  ah,  I  can't  say  how  they  hurt  me! 
They  lacked  everything  a  kiss,  as  the  expres- 
sion of  the  strongest,  best  feeling  of  a  man 
and  woman,  ca7t  hold.  How  do  I  know?  My 
dear  woman,  have  you  never  dreamt,  felt,  had 
intuitive  experiences?  I  have.  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  had  not  a  keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous 
side  of  the  whole  affair;  that  one  portion  of 
my  soul  was  not  having  a  laugh  at  the  other's 
expense.  I  do  not  quite  know  what  I  had  been 
expecting.  'T  is  true  he  had  written  me  beauti- 
ful letters.  You  see  he  is  too  much  of  a  word- 
artist  to  write  anything  else. 

**  Treated  me  badly  }     No,  I  am  not  prepared 


^0  KEYNOTES. 

to  say  that  he  did.  I  am  glad  he  was  too  hon- 
est to  hide  his  startled  reahzation  of  the  fact 
that  autumn  and  spring  are  different  seasons, 
and  that  one's  feeHngs  may  undergo  a  change 
in  a  winter.  I  do  not  see  why  I  should  resent 
that.  Why,  it  would  be  punishing  him  for 
having  cared  for  me.  To  put  it  in  his  words : 
*  I  came  as  a  strangely  lovely  dream  into  his 
life.'  Probably  the  whole  mistake  lay  in  that. 
He  thought  of  me  as  a  dream  lady,  with  dainty 
hands;  idealized  me,  and  wrote  to  the  dream 
creature.  When  I  came  back  in  the  flesh,  he 
realized  that  I  was  a  prosaic  fact,  with  less 
charming  hands,  a  tendency  to  leanness,  and 
coming  crow's  feet.  His  look  of  dismayed 
awakening  was  simply  delicious. 

**  I  wish  I  could  catch  and  fasten  the  fleeting 
images  that  flit  across  my  memory;  you  would 
grasp  my  mental  attitude  better.  In  the  midst 
of  all  my  pain,  —  I  was  sitting  next  him,  and 
he  was  stroking  my  hand  mechanically,  —  I 
noticed  a  glass  case  on  the  wall  containing  an 
Italian  landscape,  with  ball-blue  sky  and  pink 
lakes;  pasteboard  figures  of  Dutch-peasant 
build,  with  Zouave  jackets,  Tyrolese  hats,  and 
bandaged  legs,  figured  in  the  foreground ;  you 


NOW   SPRING   HAS   COME.  71 

wound  it  up,  and  the  figures  danced  to  a  varso- 
viana.  I  was  listening  to  him,  and  yet  at  the 
same  time  I  caught  myself  imagining  how  he 
and  I  would  look  dressed  like  that,  bobbing 
about  to  the  old-fashioned  tune.  I  could  hardly 
keep  from  shrieking  with  laughter.  He  had  a 
turn-down  collar  on :  he  ought  always  to  wear 
unstarched  linen,  —  it  and  his  throat  did  n't  fit. 
You  cannot  understand  me  .'*  Dearest  woman, 
I  do  not  pretend  to  understand  the  thing 
myself. 

"  Did  we  not  talk  about  anything  }  Of  course 
we  did,  —  Tolstoi  and  his  doctrine  of  celibacy; 
Ibsen's  Hedda;  Strindberg's  view  of  the  female 
animal,  —  and  agreed  that  Friedrich  Nietzche 
appealed  to  us  immensely.  You  must  make 
allowances.  Here  was  a  man  passionately  at- 
tached to  his  art,  —  his  art,  that  he  had  been 
treating  churlishly  for  months  for  the  sake  of  a 
dream.  The  dream  was  out,  and  he  feared  her 
revenge.  That  is  the  one  potent  element  of 
consolation  for  me.  If  one  has  made  an  idiot 
of  one's  self,  it  is  at  least  self-consoling  to  have 
done  so  for  a  genius.  He  chose  the  better  part, 
if  you  come  to  think  of  it.  The  man  or  woman 
who  jeopardizes  a  great  talent  —  be  it  of  writ- 


72  KEYNOTES. 

ing,  painting,  or  acting  —  for  marriage  sake  is 
bartering  a  precious  birthright  for  a  mess 
of  pottage,  mostly  indifferent  pottage.  And 
even  if  it  were  excellent,  it  is  bound  to  pall 
when  one  has  it  every  day.  There  never  was 
a  marriage  yet  in  which  one  was  not  a  loser ; 
and  it  is  generally  the  more  gifted  half  who  has 
to  pay  the  heaviest  toll. 

''  I  believe  he  was  intensely  sorry  for  me.  I 
asked  him  once,  you  know,  half  playfully,  half 
maliciously,  if  he  had  meant  something,  some- 
thing deliciously  tender,  —  I  quoted  it  out  of 
one  of  his  letters.  He  paled  to  his  lips,  closed 
his  eyes  for  a  second,  and  I  saw  drops  of  sweat 
break  out  on  his  forehead.  I  sprang  up  and 
turned  aside  his  answer.  I  remember  when  I 
was  a  little  child  I  never  would  pick  flowers; 
I  always  fancied  they  felt  it,  and  bled  to  death. 
I  used  to  sneak  behind,  and  gather  up  all  those 
my  playmates  threw  down  on  the  road  or  fields, 
and  put  them,  stalks  down,  into  the  water  in 
the  ditch  or  brook;  even  now  I  can't  wear 
them.  I  did  not  wish  to  hurt  him  either;  he 
could  not  help  his  passion-flower  withering.  I 
suppose  it  was  written  that  my  love  should  turn, 
like  fairy  gold,  into  withered  leaves  in  my  grasp. 


NOW   SPRING   HAS   COME.  73 

*'  What,  dear,  —  a  white  hair  ?  Oh,  I  saw 
several  lately.  How  did  it  end  ?  Oh,  he  said 
that  he  was  going  away  to  glean  material  for 
a  new  book ;  that  he  would  burn  my  letters,  — 
it  was  safer  and  wiser  to  burn  letters.  No,  I 
did  not  ask  him ;  he  volunteered  it.  He  asked 
me,  did  I  not  think  so  ?  I  said  yes.  But  is  it 
not  marvellous  how  dazzlingly  swift  our  thoughts 
can  travel,  like  light?  While  I  was  saying, 
*  Yes,  one  often  regretted  not  having  burned 
letters ;  receipts,  receipts  for  bills,  were  really 
the  only  things  of  importance  to  keep,'  I  was 
thinking  and  crying  inwardly  over  ray  letters. 
Such  letters  !  —  one  only  writes  once  like  that, 
I  think.  All  the  perfume  of  the  flowers  I  ever 
smelt,  all  the  sun- glints  on  hill  and  sea,  all  the 
strains  of  music  and  light  and  love  I  had  gar- 
nered from  the  glad,  fresh,  young  years  when 
I  tossed  cowslip  balls  in  the  meadows,  were 
crystallized  into  love-words  in  those  letters  of 
mine.  It  seemed  to  me  often  that  the  words 
burnt  with  a  white  flame  as  I  wrote  them,  and 
I  was  shy  when  I  saw  them  written ;  and  he 
said,  ^  I  shall  burn  them  !  '  much  as  you  might 
say,  *  I  shall  take  the  trimming  off  that  last 
summer  hat  of  mine.'     I  did  not  like  to  think 


74  KEYNOTES. 

of  his  burning  them,  perhaps  with  his  old  wash- 
ing-bills. Do  you  know,  if  I  had  a  finger  or 
toe  cut  off,  I  would  n't  like  them  to  take  it 
away ;  I  'd  like  to  bury  it.  A  sort  of  feel,  I 
suppose. 

**  Well,  we  said  good-by !  I  felt  as  if  I  had 
a  sponge  with  a  lot  of  holes  in  it,  instead  of  a 
heart,  and  that  all  the  feeling  had  oozed  away 
through  them.  He  was  glad  to  go,  I  think;  he 
felt  himself  a  brute  I  dare  say,  yet  how  could 
he  help  it? 

**  Were  you  ever  at  the  Scandinavian  church 
in  the  Docks  ?  I  went  one  Sunday  after  I  came 
back.  I  like  those  blue-eyed,  sea-faring  folk  ; 
and  the  priest  wears  a  black  gown  and  stiff  ruff, 
like  Luther  of  mixed  renown.  An  apple-tree 
outside  the  open  door  was  struggling  to  open 
its  delicate  pink  blossoms;  each  petal  had  a 
tinge  of  soot,  —  it  reminded  me  of  the  pretty 
cheeks  of  a  grimy  maid-of-all-work.  I  sat  still ; 
a  sunbeam  came  in  and  pierced  Judas's  heart, 
as  he  sat  at  his  section  of  the  Last  Supper 
table,  and  it  wrapped  me  up  in  a  sun  haze,  so 
that  all  was  misty  around  me.  The  sermon 
only  struck    my  ear    with    a  soothing,  drowsy 


NOW   SPRING   HAS   COME.  75 

roll,  something  like  the  wave-note  of  the  incurl- 
ing  sea  in  the  Mediterranean,  —  a  legato  ac- 
companiment to  my  thoughts;  and  I  had  a 
grand  burial  all  by  myself.  I  dug  a  deep 
grave,  and  laid  all  my  dreams  and  foolish  wishes 
and  sweet  hopes  in  it.  A  puff  of  wind  rustled 
through  the  rigging  of  the  ships,  and  set  the 
flags  with  their  yellow  cross  fluttering,  and 
scattered  a  few  of  the  tender  blooms  over  it, 
and  —  ah,  well !  it  seems  hard  to  realize  now. 
Spring  has  gone ! 

*'Do  you  really  think  that  crinolines  will  be 
worn?" 


THE    SPELL   OF   THE  WHITE   ELF. 

Have  you  ever  read  out  a  joke  that  seemed 
excruciatingly  funny,  or  repeated  a  line  of 
poetry  that  struck  you  as  being  inexpressibly 
tender,  and  found  that  your  listener  was  not 
impressed  as  you  were?  I  have;  and  so  it 
may  be  that  this  will  bore  you,  though  it  was 
momentous  enough  to  me. 

I  had  been  up  in  Norway  to  receive  a  little 
legacy  that  fell  to  me;  and  though  my  summer 
visits  were  not  infrequent,  I  had  never  been  up 
there  in  mid-winter,  at  least  not  since  I  was  a 
little  child  tobogganing  with  Hans  Jorgen  (Hans 
Jorgen  Dahl  is  his  full  name),  and  that  was 
long  ago.  We  are  connected.  Hans  Jorgen 
and  I  were  both  orphans,  and  a  cousin  (we 
called  her  aunt)  was  one  of  our  guardians.  He 
was  her  favorite  ;  and  when  an  uncle  on  my 
mother's  side  (she  was  Cornish  born ;  my  father, 
a  ship  captain,  met  her  at  Dartmouth)  offered 
to  take  me,  I  think  she  was  glad  to  let  me  go. 


THE   SPELL   OF  THE   WHITE  ELF.  7/ 

I  was  a  lanky  girl  of  eleven,  and  Hans  Jorgen 
and  I  were  sweethearts.  We  were  to  be  married 
some  day,  —  we  had  arranged  all  that,  —  and 
he  reminded  me  of  it  when  I  was  going  away, 
and  gave  me  a  silver  perfume-box,  with  a  gilt 
crown  on  top,  that  had  belonged  to  his  mother; 
and  later  when  he  was  going  to  America  he 
came  to  see  me  first.  He  w^as  a  long,  freckled 
hobbledehoy,  with  just  the  same  true  eyes  and 
shock  head.  I  was,  I  thought,  quite  grown  up. 
I  had  passed  my  '*  intermediate,"  and  was  con- 
descending as  girls  are ;  but  I  don't  think  it 
impressed  Hans  Jorgen  much,  for  he  gave  me 
a  little  ring,  turquoise  forget-me-nots  with 
enamelled  leaves  and  a  motto  inside  (a  quaint 
old  thing  that  belonged  to  a  sainted  aunt,  they 
keep  things  a  long  time  in  Norway),  and  said 
he  would  send  for  me  ;  but  of  course  I  laughed 
at  that.  He  has  grown  to  be  a  great  man  out 
in  Cincinnati,  and  waits  always.  I  wrote  later 
and  told  him  I  thought  marriage  a  vocation, 
and  I  hadn't  one  for  it;  but  Hans  Jorgen 
took  no  notice, — just  said  he'd  wait.  He 
understands  waiting,  I  '11  say  that  for  Hans 
Jorgen. 

I  have  been  alone  now  for  five  years,  work- 


78  KEYNOTES. 

ing  away,  though  I  was  left  enough  to  keep  me 
before.  Someway  I  have  not  the  same  glad- 
ness in  my  work  of  late  years.  Working  for 
one's  self  seems  a  poor  end,  even  if  one  puts  by 
money.  But  this  has  little  or  nothing  to  do 
with  the  white  elf,  has   it? 

Christiania  is  a  singular  city  if  one  knows 
how  to  see  under  the  surface,  and  I  enjoyed 
my  stay  there  greatly.  The  Hull  boat  was  to 
sail  at  4.30,  and  I  had  sent  my  things  down 
early;  for  I  was  to  dine  at  the  Grand  at  two 
with  a  cousin,  a  typical  Christiania  man.  It 
was  a  fine,  clear  day,  and  Karl  Johann  was 
thronged  with  folks.  The  band  was  playing  in 
the  park,  and  pretty  girls  and  laughing  students 
walked  up  and  down.  Every  one  who  is  any- 
body may  generally  be  seen  about  that  time. 
Henrik  Ibsen  —  if  you  did  not  know  him  from 
his  portrait,  you  would  take  him  to  be  a  pros- 
perous merchant  —  was  going  home  to  dine;  but 
Bjornstjerne  Bjornson,  in  town  just  then,  with 
his  grand,  leonine  head,  and  the  kind,  keen  eyes 
behind  his  glasses,  was  standing  near  the 
Storthing  House  with  a  group  of  politicians  prob- 
ably discussing  the  vexed  question  of  separate 
consulship.      In   no    city   does    one    see    such 


THE   SPELL   OF  THE   WHITE   ELF.  79 

characteristic  odd  faces  and  such  queerly  cut 
clothes.  The  streets  are  full  of  students.  The 
farmers*  sons  among  them  are  easily  recognized 
by  their  homespun,  sometimes  home-made, 
suits,  their  clever  heads  and  intelligent  faces; 
from  them  come  the  writers  and  brain-carriers 
of  Norway.  The  Finns,  too,  have  a  distinctive 
type  of  head,  and  a  something  elusive  in  the 
expression  of  their  changeful  eyes ;  but  all,  the 
town  students  too,  of  easier  manners  and 
slangier  tongues,  —  all  alike  are  going,  as 
finances  permit,  to  dine  in  restaurant  or  steam- 
kitchen.  I  saw  the  memi  for  to-day  posted  up 
outside  the  door  of  the  latter  as  I  passed, — 
''  Rice  porridge  and  salt  meat  soup,  6d.^'  —  and 
Hans  Jorgen  came  back  with  a  vivid  picture  of 
childhood  days,  when  every  family  in  the  little 
coast-town  where  we  lived  had  a  fixed  menu 
for  every  day  in  the  week;  and  it  was  quite  a 
distinction  to  have  meat-balls  on  pickled- 
herring  day,  or  ale  soup  when  all  the  folks  in 
town  were  cooking  omelets  with  bacon.  How 
he  used  to  eat  rice  porridge  in  those  days !  I 
can  see  him  now  put  his  heels  together  and 
give  his  awkward  bow  as  he  said,  ''  Tak  for 
Maden  tante  1  '* 


8o  KEYNOTES. 

Well,  we  are  sitting  in  the  Grand  Cafe  after 
dinner,  at  a  little  table  near  the  door,  watching 
the  people  pass  in  and  out.  An  ubiquitous 
*^  sample-count"  from  Berlin  is  measuring  his  wits 
with  a  young  Norwegian  merchant;  he  is  stand- 
ing green  chartreuse.  It  pays  to  be  generous 
even  for  a  German,  when  you  can  oust  honest 
Leeds  cloth  with  German  shoddy:  at  least,  so 
my  cousin  says.  He  knows  every  one  by  sight, 
and  points  out  all  the  celebrities  to  me.  Sud- 
denly he  bows  profoundly.  I  look  round:  a 
tall  woman  with  very  square  shoulders,  and 
gold-rimmed  spectacles  is  passing  us  with  two 
gentlemen.  She  is  English,  by  her  tailor-made 
gown  and  little  shirt-front,  and  noticeable 
anywhere. 

"  That  lady,"  says  my  cousin,  "  is  a  com- 
patriot of  yours.  She  is  a  very  fine  person,  a 
very  learned  lady;  she  has  been  looking  up 
referats  in  the  University  Bibliothek.  Professor 
Sturm  —  he  is  a  good  friend  of  me  —  did  tell 
me.  I  forget  her  name;  she  is  married.  I 
suppose  her  husband  he  stay  at  home  and  keep 
the  house !  " 

My  cousin  has  just  been  refused  by  a  young 
lady  dentist,  who   says  she  is   too  comfortably 


THE   SPELL   OF   THE   WHITE   ELF.  8 1 

off  to  change  for  a  small  housekeeping  business  ; 
so  I  excuse  his  sarcasm. 

We  leave  as  the  time  draws  on,  and  sleigh 
down  to  the  steamer.  I  like  the  jingle  of  the 
bells,  and  I  feel  a  little  sad ;  there  is  a  witchery 
about  the  country  that  creeps  into  one  and 
works  like  a  love-philter,  and  if  one  has  once 
lived  up  there,  one  never  gets  it  out  of  one's 
blood  again.  I  go  on  board,  and  lean  over  and 
watch  the  people  ;  there  are  a  good  many  for 
winter  time.  The  bell  rings.  Two  sleighs  drive 
up,  and  my  compatriot  and  her  friends  appear; 
she  shakes  hands  with  them,  and  comes  leisurely 
up  the  gang-way.  The  thought  flits  through 
me  that  she  would  cross  it  in  just  that  cool  way 
if  she  were  facing  death ;  it  is  foolish,  but  most 
of  our  passing  thoughts  are  just  as  inconsequent. 
She  calls  down  a  remembrance  to  some  one  in 
such  pretty  Norwegian,  much  prettier  than 
mine,  and  then  we  swing  round.  Handker- 
chiefs wave  in  every  hand.  Never  have  I  seen 
such  persistent  handkerchief-waving  as  at  the 
departure  of  a  boat  in  Norway ;  it  is  a  national 
characteristic.  If  you  live  at  the  mouth  of  a 
fjord,  and  go  to  the  market-town  at  the  head  of 
it  for  your  weekly  supply  of  coffee  beans,  the 
6 


82  KEYNOTES. 

population  give  you  a  *' send  off"  with  flutter- 
ing kerchiefs  ;  it  is  as  universal  as  the  **  Thanks.'* 
Hans  Jorgen  says  I  am  Anglicized,  and  only  see 
the  ridiculous  side,  forgetting  the  kind  feehngs 
that  prompt  it. 

I  find  a  strange  pleasure  in  watching  the 
rocks  peep  out  under  the  snow,  the  children 
dragging  their  hand-sleds  along  the  ice.  All 
the  little  bits  of  winter  life  of  which  I  get  flying 
glimpses  as  we  pass,  bring  back  scenes  grown 
dim  in  the  years  between.  There  is  a  mist 
ahead ;  and  when  we  pass  Drobak  cuddled  like 
a  dormouse  for  winter's  sleep,  I  go  below.  A 
bright  coal-fire  burns  in  the  open  grate  of  the 
stove,  and  the  ''  Rollo"  saloon  looks  very  cosy. 
My  compatriot  is  stretched  in  a  big  arm-chair 
reading.  She  is  sitting  comfortably  with  one 
leg  crossed  over  the  other,  in  the  manner  called 
shockingly  unladylike  of  my  early  lessons  in 
deportment.  The  flame  flickers  over  the  patent 
leather  of  her  neat  low-heeled  boot,  and  strikes 
a  spark  from  the  pin  in  her  tie.  There  is 
something  manlike  about  her;  I  don't  know 
where  it  lies,  but  it  is  there.  Her  hair  curls  in 
gray-flecked  rings  about  her  head  ;  it  has  not  a 
cut  look,  seems  rather  to  grow  short   naturally. 


THE   SPELL   OF   THE   WHITE   ELF.  83 

She  has  a  charming,  tubbed  look;  of  course 
every  lady  is  alike  clean,  but  some  men  and 
women  have  an  individual  look  of  sweet  clean- 
ness that  is  a  beauty  of  itself.  She  feels  my 
gaze,  and  looks  up  and  smiles;  she  has  a  rare 
smile,  —  it  shows  her  white  teeth  and  softens 
her  features. 

*^The  fire  is  cosy,  isn't  it?  I  hope  we  shall 
have  an  easy  passage,  so  that  it  can  be  kept  in." 

I  answer  something  in  English. 

She  has  a  trick  of  wrinkling  her  brows  ;  she 
does  it  now  as  she  says,  — 

**  A-ah,  I  should  have  said  you  were  Norsk, 
are  you  not  really?  Surely,  you  have  a  typical 
head,  or  eyes  and  hair  at  the  least?  *' 

**  Half  of  me  is  Norsk,  but  I  have  lived  a  long 
time  in  England." 

*'  Father  of  course  ;  case  of '  there  was  a  sailor 
loved  a  lass,*  was  it  not?  *' 

I  smile  an  assent  and  add  :  *'  I  lost  them  both 
when  I  was  very  young." 

A  reflective  look  steals  over  her  face.  It  is 
stern  in  repose ;  and  as  she  seems  lost  in  some 
train  of  thought  of  her  own,  I  go  to  my  cabin 
and  lie  down ;  the  rattling  noises  and  the  smell 
of  paint   make  me   feel    ill.     I  do   not  go   out 


84  KEYNOTES. 

again.  I  wake  next  morning  with  a  sense  of 
fear  at  the  stillness ;  there  is  no  sound  but  a 
lapping  wash  of  water  at  the  side  of  the  steamer, 
but  it  is  delicious  to  lie  quietly  after  the  vibra- 
tion of  the  screw  and  the  sickening  swing.  I 
look  at  my  watch,  —  seven  o'clock.  I  cannot 
make  out  why  there  is  such  a  silence,  as  we  only 
stop  at  Christiansand  long  enough  to  take  cargo 
and  passengers.  I  dress  and  go  out.  The 
saloon  is  empty,  but  the  fire  is  burning  brightly. 
I  go  to  the  pantry  and  ask  the  stewardess  when 
we  arrived.  Early,  she  says ;  all  the  pa^engers 
for  here  are  already  gone  on  shore,  and  there  is 
a  thick  fog  outside;  goodness  knows  how  long 
we  '11  be  kept.  I  go  to  the  top  of  the  stairs  and 
look  out;  the  prospect  is  uninviting,  and  I  come 
down  again  and  turn  over  some  books  on  the 
table,  in  Russian,  I  think.  I  feel  sure  they  are 
hers. 

''  Good  morning !  "  comes  her  pleasant  voice. 

How  alert  and  bright-eyed  she  is  !  it  is  a  pick- 
me-up  to  look  at  her. 

"  You  did  not  appear  last  night  ;  not  given  in 
already,  I  hope  !  '* 

She  is  kneeling  on  one  knee  before  the  fire, 
holding  her  palms  to  the  glow ;   and  with  her 


THE   SPELL   OF  THE  WHITE   ELF.  85 

figure  hidden  in  her  loose,  fur-lined  coat,  and 
the  Hght  showing  up  her  strong  face  under  the 
Httle  tweed  cap,  she  seems  so  Hke  a  clever-faced 
slight  man  that  I  feel  I  am  conventionally  guilty 
in  talking  so  freely  to  her.  She  looks  at  me 
with  a  deliberate,  critical  air,  and  then  springs 
up. 

*'  Let  me  give  you  something  for  your  head  ! 
Stewardess,  a  wine-glass  !  " 

I  should  not  dream  of  remonstrance,  not  if 
she  were  to  command  me  to  drink  sea-water; 
and  I  am  not  complaisant  as  a  rule. 

When  she  comes  back  I  swallow  it  bravelyi 
but  I  leave  some  powder  in  the  glass  ;  she 
shakes  her  head,  and  I  finish  this  too.  We  sat 
and  talked,  or  at  least  she  talked  and  I  listened. 
^ I  don't  remember  w^hat  she  said;  I  only  know 
that  she  was  making  clear  to  me  most  of  the 
things  that  had  puzzled  me  for  a  long  time, — 
questions  that  arise  in  silent  hours,  that  one 
speculates  over,  and  to  which  one  finds  no 
answer  in  text-books.  How  she  knew  just  the 
subjects  that  worked  in  me  I  knew  not ;  some 
subtile  intuitive  sympathy,  I  suppose,  enabled 
her  to  find  it  out.  It  was  the  same  at  breakfast ; 
she  talked  down  to  the  level  of  the  men  present 


S6  KEYNOTES. 

(of  course  they  did  not  see  that  it  might  be 
possible  for  a  woman  to  do  that),  and  made  it  a 
very  pleasant  meal. 

It  was  in  the  evening  —  we  had  the  saloon 
to  ourselves — when  she  told  me  about  the 
white  elf.  I  had  been  talking  of  myself  and  of 
Hans  Jorgen. 

''  I  like  your  Mr.  Hans  Jorgen,"  she  said  ;  *'  he 
has  a  strong  nature  and  knows  what  he  wants ; 
there  is  reliability  in  him.  They  are  rarer 
qualities  than  one  thinks  in  men ;  I  have  found 
through  life  that  the  average  man  is  weaker 
than  we  are.  It  must  be  a  good  thing  to  have 
a  stronger  nature  to  lean  to.  I  have  never  had 
that." 

There  is  a  want  in  the  tone  of  her  voice  as 
she  ends,  and  I  feel  inclined  to  put  out  my  hand 
and  stroke  hers,  —  she  has  beautiful  long  hands, 
—  but  I  am  afraid  to  do  so.     I  query  shyly,  — 

*'  Have  you  no  little  ones?" 

**  Children,  you  mean?  No,  I  am  one  of  the 
barren  ones ;  they  are  less  rare  than  they  used 
to  be.  But  I  have  a  white  elf  at  home,  and  that 
makes  up  for  it.  Shall  I  tell  you  how  the  elf 
came?  Well,  its  mother  is  a  connection  of 
mine,  and  she  hates  me  with  an  honest  hatred; 


THE   SPELL   OF   THE   WHITE   ELF.  8/ 

it  is  the  only  honest  feeling  I  ever  discovered 
in  her.  It  vi^as  about  the  time  that  she  found 
the  elf  was  to  come  that  it  broke  out  openly, 
but  that  was  mere  coincidence.  How  she 
detested  me !  Those  narrow,  poor  natures  are 
capable  of  an  intensity  of  feeling  concentrated 
on  one  object  that  larger  natures  can  scarcely 
measure. 

*'Now  I  shall  tell  you  something  strange. 
I  do  not  pretend  to  understand  it ;  I  may  have 
my  theory,  but  that  is  of  no  physiological  value, 
—  I  only  tell  it  to  you.  Well,  all  the  time  she 
was  carrying  the  elf  she  was  full  of  simmering 
hatred,  and  she  wished  me  evil  often  enough ; 
one  feels  those  things  in  an  odd  way.  Why 
did  she?  Oh,  that  —  that  was  a  family  affair, 
with  perhaps  a  thread  of  jealousy  mixed  up  in 
the  knot.  Well,  one  day  the  climax  came,  and 
much  was  said ;  and  I  went  away  and  married, 
and  got  ill,  and  the  doctors  said  I  w^ould  be 
childless.  And  in  the  mean  time  the  little 
human  soul  —  I  thought  about  it  so  often  —  had 
fought  its  way  out  of  the  darkness.  We 
childless  women  weave  more  fancies  into  the 
'  mithering  o'  bairns '  than  the  actual  mothers 
themselves ;  the  poetry  of  it  is  not  spoiled  by 


8S  KEYNOTES. 

nettle-rash  or  chin-cough  any  more  than  our 
figures.  I  am  a  writer  by  profession  —  oh,  you 
knew!  No,  hardly  celebrated;  but  I  put  my 
little  chips  into  the  great  mosaic  as  best  I  can. 
Positions  are  reversed ;  they  often  are  now-a- 
days.  My  husband  stays  at  home,  and  grows 
good  things  to  eat  and  pretty  things  to  look 
at,  and  I  go  out  and  win  bread  and  butter.  It 
is  a  matter  not  of  who  has  most  brains,  but 
whose  brains  are  most  salable.  Fit  in  with 
the  housekeeping?  Oh,  yes.  I  have  a  treasure, 
too,  in  Belinda.  She  is  one  of  those  women 
who  must  have  something  to  love.  She  used 
to  love  cats,  birds,  dogs,  anything.  She  is  one 
bump  of  philo-progenitiveness ;  but  she  hates 
men.  She  says :  '  If  one  could  only  have  a 
child,  ma'm,  without  a  husband  or  the  disgrace ! 
ugh,  the  disgusting  men  ! '  Do  you  know,  I 
think  that  is  not  an  uncommon  feeling  among 
a  certain  number  of  women.  I  have  often 
drawn  her  out  on  the  subject;  it  struck  me, 
because  I  have  often  found  it  in  other  women. 
I  have  known  many,  particularly  older  women, 
who  would  give  anything  in  God's  world  to 
have  a  child  of  '  their  own '  if  it  could  be  got, 
just  as  Belinda  says,  '  without  the  horrid  man 


THE    SPELL   OF  THE-  WHITE   ELF.  89 

or  the  shame.'  It  seems  congenital  with  some 
women  to  have  deeply  rooted  in  their  inner- 
most nature  a  smoldering  enmity  —  ay,  some- 
times a  physical  disgust  —  to  men.  It  is  a  kind 
of  kin  feeling  to  the  race-dislike  of  white  men 
to  black.  Perhaps  it  explains  why  woman, 
where  her  own  feelings  are  not  concerned,  will 
always  make  common  cause  with  woman  against 
man.  I  have  often  thought  about  it.  You 
should  hear  Belinda's  *  serve  him  right '  when 
some  fellow  comes  to  grief!  I  have  a  little  of 
it  myself  [meditatively],  but  in  a  broader  way, 
you  know.  I  like  to  cut  them  out  in  their  own 
province. 

**Well,  the  elf  was  born;  and  now  comes  the 
singular  part  of  it.  It  was  a  wretched,  frail 
little  being,  with  a  startling  likeness  to  me.  It 
was  as  if  the  evil  the  mother  had  washed  me 
had  worked  on  the  child,  and  the  constant 
thought  of  me  stamped  my  features  on  its  little 
face.  I  was  working  then  on  a  Finland  saga, 
and  I  do  not  know  why  it  was,  but  the  thought 
of  that  little  being  kept  disturbing  my  work. 
It  was  worst  in  the  afternoon  time,  when  the 
house  seemed  quietest ;  there  is  always  a  lull 
then,  outside  and  inside.     Have  you  ever  noticed 


90  KEYNOTES. 

that?  The  birds  hush  their  singing,  and  the 
work  is  done.  BeHnda  used  to  sit  sewing  in 
the  kitchen,  and  the  words  of  a  hymn  she  used 
to  Hit  in  half  tones  —  something  about  joy  bells 
ringing,  children  singing  —  floated  in  to  me,  and 
the  very  tick-tock  of  the  old  clock  sounded 
hke  the  rocking  of  wooden  cradles.  It  made 
me  think  sometimes  that  it  would  be  pleasant  to 
hear  small,  pattering  feet  and  the  call  of  voices 
through  the  silent  house;  and  I  suppose  it 
acted  as  an  irritant  on  my  imaginative  faculty, 
for  the  whole  room  seemed  filled  with  the 
spirits  of  Httle  children.  They  seemed  to 
dance  round  me  with  uncertain,  lightsome 
steps,  waving  tiny,  pink,  dimpled  hands,  shaking 
sunny,  flossy  curls,  and  haunting  me  with  their 
great  innocent  child-eyes,  filled  with  the  un- 
conscious sadness  and  the  infinite  questioning 
that  is  oftenest  seen  in  the  gaze  of  children.  I 
used  to  fancy  something  stirred  in  me,  and  the 
spirits  of  unborn  little  ones  never  to  come  to 
life  in  me  troubled  me.  I  was  probably  over- 
worked at  the  time.  How  we  women  digress  ! 
I  am  telling  you  more  about  myself  than  my 
white  elf. 

**  Well,  trouble    came  to    their  home,  and    I 


THE  SPELL   OF  THE   WHITE   ELF.  9 1 

went  and  offered  to  take  it.  It  was  an  odd  little 
thing,  and  when  I  looked  at  it  I  could  see  how 
like  we  were.  My  glasses  dimmed  somehow, 
and  a  lump  kept  rising  in  my  throat,  when  it 
smiled  up  out  of  its  great  eyes  and  held  out 
two  bits  of  hands  like  shrivelled  white  rose- 
leaves.  Such  a  tiny  scrap  it  was  !  it  was  not 
bigger,  she  said,  than  a  baby  of  eleven  months. 
I  suppose  they  can  tell  that  as  I  can  the 
date  of  a  dialect ;  but  I  am  getting  wiser,"  with 
an  emotional  softening  of  her  face,  and  quite  a 
proud  look.  ^'  A  child  is  like  one  of  those  won- 
derful runic  alphabets  ;  the  signs  are  simple,  but 
the  lore  they  contain  is  marvellous.  ^  She  is  very 
like  you,'  said  the  mother ;  *  hold  her.'  She 
was  only  beginning  to  walk.  I  did.  You  never 
saw  such  elfin  ears,  with  strands  of  silk  floss 
ringing  round  them,  and  the  quaintest,  darlingest 
wrinkles  in  its  forehead,  two  long,  and  one  short, 
just  as  I  have  "  —  putting  her  head  forward  for  me 
to  see.  **  The  other  children  were  strong,  and 
the  one  on  the  road  she  hoped  would  be 
healthy.  So  I  took  it  there  and  then,  '  clothes 
and  baby,  cradle  and  all.'  Yes,  I  have  a  col- 
lection of  nursery  rhymes  from  many  nations ; 
I  was  going  to  put  them  in  a  book,  but  I  say 
them  to  the  elf  now. 


92  KEYNOTES. 

*'  I  wired  to  my  husband.  You  should  have 
seen  me  going  home.  I  was  so  nervous, —  I 
was  not  half  as  nervous  when  I  read  my  paper 
(it  was  rather  a  celebrated  paper,  perhaps  you 
heard  of  it)  to  the  Royal  Geographical  Society; 
it  was  on  Esquimaux  marriage  songs,  and  the 
analogy  between  them  and  the  Song  of  Solo- 
mon. She  was  so  light,  and  so  wrapped  up, 
and  my  pince-7iez  kept  dropping  off  when  I 
stooped  over  her  (I  got  spectacles  after  that)  ; 
and  I  used  to  fancy  I  had  dropped  her  out  of 
the  wrappings,  and  peep  under  the  shawl  to 
make  sure  [with  a  sick  shiver],  to  find  her  suck- 
ing her  thumb.  And  I  nearly  passed  my  station  ; 
and  then  a  valuable  book  —  indeed,  it  is  really 
a  case  of  Mss.,  and  almost  unique  —  I  had  bor- 
rowed for  reference,  with  some  trouble,  could 
not  be  found,  and  my  husband  roared  }vith 
laughter  when  it  turned  up  in  the  cradle. 
Belinda  was  at  the  gate  anxious  to  take  her, 
and  he  said  I  did  not  know  how  to  hold  her,  — 
that  I  was  holding  her  like  a  book  of  notes  at 
a  lecture  ;  and  so  I  gave  her  to  Belinda.  I  think 
the  poor  little  thing  found  it  all  strange,  and 
when  she  puckered  up  her  face  and  thrust  out 
her  under  lip,  and  two  great  tears  jumped  off 


THE   SPELL   OF  THE   WHITE   ELF.  93 

her  lashes,  we  all  felt  ready  for  hanging.  But 
Belinda,  though  she  does  n't  know  one  language, 
not  even  her  own,  for  she  sows  her  Ks  broad- 
cast and  picks  them  up  at  hazard,  —  she  can 
talk  to  a  baby.  I  am  so  glad  for  that  reason 
she  is  bigger  now.  I  couldn't  manage  it:  I 
could  not  reason  out  any  system  they  go  on 
in  baby  talk.  I  tried  mixing  up  the  tenses,  but 
somehow  it  was  n't  right.  My  husband  says  it 
is  not  more  odd  than  salmon  taking  a  fly  that 
is  certainly  like  nothing  they  ever  see  in  nature. 
Anyway  it  answered  splendidly.  Belinda  used 
to  say  (I  made  a  note  of  some  of  them):  '  Did- 
sum  was  denn?  Oo  did  !  Was  ums  de  prettiest 
itta  sweetums  denn?  Oo  was.  An'  did  um  put 
'em  in  a  nasty  shawl  an'  joggle  'em  in  an  ole 
puff-puff?  Um  did  ;  was  a  shame  !  Hitchy  cum, 
hitchy  cum,  hitchy  cum  hi.  Chinaman  no  likey 
me !  '  This  always  made  her  laugh,  though  in 
what  connection  the  Chinaman  came  in  I  never 
could  fathom.  I  was  a  little  jealous  of  Belinda, 
but  she  knew  how  to  undress  her.  George, 
that 's  my  husband's  name,  said  the  bath-water 
was  too  hot,  and  that  the  proper  way  to  test  it 
was  to  put  one's  elbow  in.  Belinda  laughed ; 
but   I   must  confess   it  did    feel    too  hot  when 


94  KEYNOTES. 

I  tried  it  that  way :  but  how  did  he  know  ? 
I  got  her  such  pretty  clothes !  I  was  going 
to  buy  a  pragtbind  of  Nietzsche,  but  that 
must  wait.  George  made  her  a  cot  with  her 
name  carved  on  the  head  of  it;  such  a  pretty 
one  ! " 

**  Did  you  find  she  made  a  change  in  your 
Hves? "  I  asked. 

*'  Oh,  did  n't  she  !  Children  are  such  funny 
things.  I  stole  away  to  have  a  look  at  her 
later  on,  and  did  not  hear  him  come  after  me. 
She  looked  so  sweet,  and  she  was  smiling  in 
her  sleep.  I  believe  the  Irish  peasantry  say 
that  an  angel  is  whispering  when  a  baby  does 
that.  I  had  given  up  all  belief  myself,  except 
the  belief  in  a  Creator  who  is  working  out  some 
system  that  is  too  infinite  for  our  finite  minds 
to  grasp.  If  one  looks  round  with  seeing  eyes, 
one  can't  help  thinking  that  after  a  run  of 
eighteen  hundred  and  ninety-three  years  Chris- 
tianity is  not  very  consoling  in  its  results.  But 
at  that  moment,  kneeling  next  the  cradle,  I  felt 
a  strange,  solemn  feeling  stealing  over  me  :  one 
is  conscious  of  the  same  effect  in  a  grand 
cathedral  filled  with  the  peal  of  organ  music 
and   soaring  voices.     It  was   as   if  all  the  old, 


THE   SPELL   OF  THE  WHITE   ELF.  95 

sweet,  untroubled  child-belief  came  back  for  a 
spell,  and  I  wondered  if  far  back  in  the  Nazarene 
village  Mary  ever  knelt  and  watched  the  Christ- 
child  sleep  ;  and  the  legend  of  how  he  was  often 
seen  to  weep  but  never  to  smile  came  back  to 
me,  and  I  think  the  sorrow  I  felt  as  I  thought 
was  an  act  of  contrition  and  faith.  I  could  not 
teach  a  child  scepticism ;  so  I  remembered  my 
husband  prayed,  and  I  resolved  to  ask  him  to 
teach  her.  You  see  [half  hesitatingly]  I  have 
more  brains,  or  at  least  more  intellectuality, 
than  my  husband ;  and  in  that  case  one  is  apt 
to  undervalue  simpler,  perhaps  greater,  qualities. 
That  came  home  to  me,  and  I  began  to  cry,  I 
don't  know  why;  and  he  lifted  me  up,  and 
I  think  I  said  something  of  the  kind  to  him. 
We  got  nearer  to  each  other  someway.  He  said 
it  was  unlucky  to  cry  over  a  child. 

*'It  made  such  a  difference  in  the  evenings! 
I  used  to  hurry  home,  —  I  was  on  the  staff  of 
the  '  World's  Review '  just  then ;  and  it  was  so 
jolly  to  see  the  quaint  little  phiz  smile  up  when 
I  went  in. 

''  Belinda  was  quite  jealous  of  George.  She 
said  *  Master  worritted  in  an'  out,  an'  interfered 
with  everything  ;  she  never  seen  a  man  as  knew 


96  KEYNOTES. 

SO  much  about  babies,  not  for  one  as  never  'ad 
none  of  'is  own.  Wot  if  he  did  n't  go  to  Parkins 
hisself,  an'  say  as  how  she  was  to  have  the  milk 
of  one  cow,  an'  mind  not  mix  it !  '  I  wish  you 
could  have  seen  the  insinuating  distrust  on 
Belinda's  face.  I  laughed.  I  believe  we  were 
all  getting  too  serious ;  I  know  I  felt  years 
younger.  I  told  George  that  it  was  really 
suspicious  :  how  did  he  acquire  such  a  stock  of 
baby  lore?  /hadn't  any.  It  was  all  very  well 
to  say  *  Aunt  Mary's  kids.'  I  should  never  be 
surprised  if  I  saw  a  Zwazi  woman  appear  with  a 
lot  of  tawny  pickaninnies  in  tow.  George  was 
shocked  !   I  often  shock  him. 

**She  began  to  walk  as  soon  as  she  got 
stronger.  I  never  saw  such  an  inquisitive  mite. 
I  had  to  rearrange  all  my  bookshelves,  change 
*  Le  Nu  de  Rabelais'  (after  Garnier,  you  know) 
and  several  others  from  the  lower  shelves  to 
the  top  ones.  One  can't  be  so  Bohemian  when 
there  is  a  little  white  soul  like  that  playing 
about,  can  one?  When  we  are  alone,  she  always 
comes  in  to  say  her  prayers  and  good-night. 
Larry  Moore  of  the  '  Vulture,'  —  he  is  one  of 
the  most  wickedly  amusing  of  men ;  prides  him- 
self on  being^;^  de  siecle  (don't  you  detest  that 


THE   SPELL   OF  THE   WHITE  ELF.  97 

word?)  or  nothing;  raves  about  Degas,  and  is  a 
worshipper  of  the  decadent  school  of  verse; 
quotes  Verlaine,  you  know, — ^well,  he  came  in 
one  evening  on  his  way  to  some  music  hall. 
She 's  a  whimsical  little  thing,  not  without 
incipient  coquetry  either,  —  well,  she  would  say 
them  to  him.  If  you  can  imagine  a  masher  of 
the  Jan  van  Beer  type  bending  his  head  to  hear 
a  child  in  a  white  *  nighty '  lisping  prayers,  you 
have  an  idea  of  the  picture.  She  kissed  him 
good-night  too  (she  never  would  before),  and 
he  must  have  forgotten  his  engagement,  for  he 
stayed  with  us  to  supper.  She  rules  us  all  with 
a  touch  of  her  little  hands,  and  I  fancy  we  are  all 
the  better  for  it.     Would  you  like  to  see  her?  " 

She  hands  me  a  medallion,  with  a  beautiful 
painted  head  in  it.  I  can't  say  she  is  a  pretty 
child,  —  a  weird,  elf-like  thing,  with  questioning, 
wistful  eyes,  and  masses  of  dark  hair,  —  and  yet 
as  I  look  the  little  face  draws  me  to  it,  and 
makes  a  kind  of  yearning  in  me,  strikes  me  with 
a  **  fairy  blast,"  perhaps. 

The  journey  was  all  too  short,  and  when  we 

got  to  Hull  she  saw  me  to  my  train.     It  was  odd 

to  see  the  quiet  way  in  which  she  got  everything 

she  wanted.     She  put  me  into  the  carriage,  got 

7 


98  KEYNOTES. 

me  a  foot-warmer  and  a  magazine,  kissed  me,  and 
said  as  she  held  my  hand,  — 

"  The  world  is  small ;  we  run  in  circles ;  per- 
haps we  shall  meet  again.  In  any  case  I  wish 
you  a  white  elf.'* 

I  was  sorry  to  part  with  her ;  I  felt  richer  than 
before  I  knew  her.  I  fancy  she  goes  about  the 
world  giving  graciously  from  her  richer  nature 
to  the  poorer  endowed  folk  she  meets  on  her 
way. 

Often  since  that  night  I  have  rounded  my 
arm  and  bowed  down  my  face,  and  fancied  I 
had  a  little  human  elf  cuddled  to  my  breast. 

I  am  very  busy  just  now  getting  everything 
ready  ;  I  had  so  much  to  buy.  I  don't  like 
confessing  it  even  to  myself,  but  down  in  the 
bottom  of  my  deepest  trunk  I  have  laid  a  parcel 
of  things,  —  such  pretty,  tiny  things.  I  saw 
them  at  a  sale ;  I  could  n't  resist  them,  they 
were  so  cheap.  Even  if  one  does  n't  want  the 
things,  it  seems  a  sin  to  let  them  go.  Besides, 
there  may  be  some  poor  woman  out  in  Cincin- 
nati. I  wrote  to  Hans  Jorgen,  you  know,  back 
in  spring,  and  —  Du  storer  Gud !  there  is 
Hans  Jorgen  coming  across  the  street! 


A  LITTLE  GRAY  GLOVE. 

Early-Spring,  1893. 
The  book  of  life  begins  with  a  man  and  woman  in  a  garden, 
and  ends  —  with  Revelations.  —  Oscar  Wilde. 

Yes,  most  fellows'  book  of  life  may  be  said  to 
begin  at  the  chapter  where  woman  comes  in: 
mine  did.  She  came  in  years  ago,  when  I  was 
a  raw  undergraduate.  With  the  sober  thought 
of  retrospective  analysis,  I  may  say  she  was 
not  all  my  fancy  painted  her ;  indeed,  now  that 
I  come  to  think  of  it,  there  was  no  fancy  about 
the  vermeil  of  her  cheeks,  rather  an  artificial 
reality.  She  had  her  bower  in  the  bar  of  the 
Golden  Boar,  and  I  was  madly  in  love  with 
her,  seriously  intent  on  lawful  wedlock.  Luckily 
for  me  she  threw  me  over  for  a  neighboring 
pork  butcher;  but  at  the  time  I  took  it  hardly, 
and  it  made  me  sex  shy.  I  was  a  very  poor 
man  in  those  days :  one  feels  one's  griefs  more 
keenly  then ;  one  has  n't  the  wherewithal  to 
buy  distraction.  Besides,  ladies  snubbed  me 
rather  on  the  rare  occasions  I  met  them.     Later 


100  KEYNOTES. 

I  fell  in  for  a  legacy,  the  forerunner  of  several ; 
indeed,  I  may  say  I  am  beastly  rich.  My  tastes 
are  simple  too,  and  I  have  n't  any  poor  relations  : 
I  believe  they  are  of  great  assistance  in  getting 
rid  of  superfluous  capital;  wish  I  had  some! 

It  was  after  the  legacy  that  women  discovered 
my  attractions.  They  found  that  there  was 
something  superb  in  my  plainness  (before  they 
said  ugliness),  something  after  the  style  of  the 
late  Victor  Emanuel,  something  infinitely  more 
striking  than  mere  ordinary  beauty.  At  least 
so  Harding  told  me  his  sister  said,  and  she  had 
the  reputation  of  being  a  clever  girl.  Being  an 
only  child  I  never  had  the  opportunity  other 
fellows  had  of  studying  the  undress  side  of 
women  through  familiar  intercourse,  say  with 
sisters.  Their  most  ordinary  belongings  were 
sacred  to  me.  I  had,  I  used  to  be  told,  ridicu- 
lous, high-flown  notions  about  them  (by  the 
way  I  modified  those  considerably  on  closer 
acquaintance)  :  I  ought  to  study  them  ;  nothing 
like  a  woman  for  developing  a  fellow.  So  I 
laid  in  a  stock  of  books  in  different  languages, 
mostly  novels,  in  which  woman  played  title- 
roles,  in  order  to  get  up  some  definite  data 
before   venturing  among  them.     I  can't  say  I 


A   LITTLE   GRAY   GLOVE.  lOI 

derived  much  benefit  from  this  course.  There 
seemed  to  be  as  great  a  diversity  of  opinion 
about  the  female  species  as,  let  us  say,  about 
the  salmonidae.  My  friend  Ponsonby  Smith, 
who  is  one  of  the  oldest  fly-fishers  in  the  three 
kingdoms,  said  to  me  once :  — 

''  Take  my  word  for  it,  there  are  only  four 
true  salmo,  —  the  salar,  the  trutta,  the  fario, 
the  ferox;  all  the  rest  are  just  varieties,  sub- 
genuses  of  the  above,  —  stick  to  that.  Some 
writing  fellow  divided  all  the  women  into  good- 
uns  and  bad-uns  ;  but  as  a  conscientious  stickler 
for  truth,  I  must  say  that  both  in  trout  as  in 
women  I  have  found  myself  faced  with  most 
puzzling  varieties,  that  were  a  tantalizing  blend- 
ing of  several  qualities." 

I  then  resolved  to  study  them  on  my  own 
account.  I  pursued  the  Eternal  Feminine  in  a 
spirit  of  purely  scientific  investigation.  I  knew 
you  'd  laugh  sceptically  at  that,  but  it 's  a  fact. 
I  was  impartial  in  my  selection  of  subjects  for 
observation,  —  French,  German,  Spanish,  as  well 
as  the  home  product.  Nothing  in  petticoats  es- 
caped me.  I  devoted  myself  to  the  freshest 
ingenue  as  well  as  the  experienced  widow  of 
three   departed;     and    I    may    as   well    confess 


102  KEYNOTES. 

that  the  more  I  saw  of  her  the  less  I  under- 
stood her.  But  I  think  they  understood  me. 
They  refused  to  take  me  ati  serieux.  When 
they  were  n't  fleecing  me,  they  were  interested 
in  the  state  of  my  soul  (I  preferred  the  former) ; 
but  all  humbugged  me  equally,  so  I  gave  them 
up.  I  took  to  rod  and  gun  instead, /r^  salute 
animcB ;  it's  decidedly  safer.  I  have  scoured 
every  country  in  the  globe;  indeed,  I  can  say 
that  I  have  shot  and  fished  in  woods  and 
waters  where  no  other  white  man,  perhaps, 
ever  dropped  a  beast  or  played  a  fish  before. 
There  is  no  life  like  the  life  of  a  free  wanderer, 
and  no  lore  like  the  lore  one  gleans  in  the 
great  book  of  Nature;  but  one  must  have 
freed  one's  spirit  from  the  taint  of  the  town 
before  one  can  even  read  the  alphabet  of  its 
mystic  meaning. 

What  has  this  to  do  with  the  glove?  True, 
not  much ;  and  yet  it  has  a  connection  —  it 
accounts  for  me. 

Well,  for  twelve  years  I  have  followed  the 
impulses  of  the  wandering  spirit  that  dwells 
in  me.  I  have  seen  the  sun  rise  in  Finland, 
and  gild  the  Devil's  Knuckles  as  he  sank  behind 
the  Drachensberg.     I  have    caught   the   barba 


A   LITTLE   GRAY   GLOVE.  IO3 

and  the  gamer  yellow-fish  in  the  Vaal  River, 
taken  muskelunge  and  black-bass  in  Canada, 
thrown  a  fly  over  guapote  and  cavallo  in  Central 
American  lakes,  and  choked  the  monster  eels 
of  the  Mauritius  with  a  cunningly  faked-up 
duckling.  But  I  have  been  shy  as  a  chub  at 
the  shadow  of  a  woman. 

Well,  it  happened  last  year  I  came  back 
on  business,  —  another  confounded  legacy;  end 
of  June  too,  just  as  I  was  off  to  Finland.  But 
Messrs.  Thimble  and  Rigg,  the  highly  respect- 
able firm  who  look  after  my  affairs,  represented 
that  I  owed  it  to  others,  whom  I  kept  out 
of  their  share  of  the  legacy,  to  stay  near  town 
till  affairs  were  wound  up.  They  told  me, 
with  a  view  to  reconcile  me  perhaps,  of  a  trout 
stream  with  a  decent  inn  near  it,  —  an^  unknown 
stream  in  Kent.  It  seems  a  junior  member 
of  the  firm  is  an  angler;  at  least  he  sometimes 
catches  pike  or  perch  in  the  Medway,  some 
way  from  the  stream  where  the  trout  rise  in 
audacious  security  from  artificial  lures.  I 
stipulated  for  a  clerk  to  come  down  with  any 
papers  to  be  signed,  and  started  at  once  for 
Victoria.  I  decline  to  tell  the  name  of  my 
find,  firstly  because  the   trout   are  the  gamest 


104  KEYNOTES. 

little  fish  that  ever  rose  to  fly,  and  run  to  a 
good  two  pounds ;  secondly,  I  have  paid  for 
all  the  rooms  in  the  inn  for  the  next  year, 
and  I  want  it  to  myself.  The  glove  is  lying 
on  the  table  next  me  as  I  write.  If  it  is  n't  in 
my  breast-pocket  or  under  my  pillow,  it  is 
some  place  where  I  can  see  it.  It  has  a  delicate 
gray  body  (Suede,  I  think  they  call  it),  with 
a  whipping  of  silver  round  the  top  and  a 
darker  gray-silk  tag  to  fasten  it.  It  is  marked 
5|  inside,  and  has  a  delicious  scent  about  it,  — 
to  keep  off  moths,  I  suppose;  naphthaline  is 
better.  It  reminds  me  of  a  **  silver-sedge " 
tied  on  a  ten  hook. 

I  startled  the  good  landlady  of  the  little  inn 
(there  is  no  village,  fortunately)  when  I  arrived, 
with  the  only  porter  of  the  tiny  station,  laden 
with  traps.  She  hesitated  about  a  private  sitting- 
room  ;  but  eventually  we  compromised  matters, 
as  I  was  willing  to  share  it  with  the  other  visitor. 
I  got  into  knickerbockers  at  once,  collared  a 
boy  to  get  me  worms  and  minnow  for  the 
morrow;  and  as  I  felt  too  lazy  to  unpack 
tackle,  I  just  sat  in  the  shiny  arm-chair  (made 
comfortable  by  the  successive  sitting  of  former 
occupants)    at   the    open   window,    and  looked 


A  LITTLE   GRAY   GLOVE.  IO5 

out.  The  river  (not  the  trout  stream)  winds 
to  the  right,  and  the  trees  cast  trembling 
shadows  into  its  clear  depths;  the  red  tiles 
of  a  farm  roof  show  between  the  beeches,  and 
break  the  monotony  of  blue  sky  background. 
A  dusty  wagoner  is  slaking  his  thirst  with 
a  tankard  of  ale.  I  am  conscious  of  the  strange 
lonely  feeling  that  a  visit  to  England  always 
gives  me.  Away  in  strange  lands,  even  in 
solitary  places,  one  does  n't  feel  it  somehow,  — 
one  is  filled  with  the  hunter's  lust,  bent  on 
a  "kill;'*  but  at  home  in  the  quiet  country, 
with  the  smoke  curling  up  from  some  fireside, 
the  mowers  busy  laying  the  hay  in  swaths, 
the  children  tumbling  under  the  trees  in  the 
orchards,  and  a  girl  singing  as  she  spreads 
the  clothes  on  the  sweetbrier  hedge,  —  amid 
a  scene  quick  with  home  sights  and  sounds, 
a  strange  lack  creeps  in  and  makes  itself  felt 
in  a  dull,  aching  way.  Oddly  enough,  too,  I 
had  a  sense  of  uneasiness,  a  **  something  going 
to  happen."  I  had  often  experienced  it  when 
out  alone  in  a  great  forest,  or  on  an  unknown 
lake ;  and  it  always  meant  '*  ware  danger "  of 
some  kind.  But  why  should  I  feel  it  here? 
Yet  I   did,  and  I  could  n't  shake  it  off.     I  took 


I06  KEYNOTES. 

to  examining  the  room.  It  was  a  common-place 
one  of  the  usual  type.  But  there  was  a  work- 
basket  on  the  table,  a  dainty  thing,  lined  with 
blue  satin.  There  was  a  bit  of  lace  stretched 
over  shiny  blue  linen,  with  the  needle  sticking 
in  it,  —  such  fairy  work,  like  cobwebs  seen  from 
below,  spun  from  a  branch  against  a  background 
of  sky.  A  gold  thimble  too,  with  initials,  —  not 
the  landlady's,  I  know.  What  pretty  things, 
too,  in  the  basket !  —  a  pair  of  scissors,  a  capital 
shape  for  fly-making ;  a  little  file,  and  some  floss 
silk  and  tinsel,  the  identical  color  I  want  for  a 
new  fly  I  have  in  my  head,  one  that  will  be  a  de- 
mon to  kill, — the  *' northern  devil"  I  mean  to 
call  him.  Some  one  looks  in  behind  me,  and  a 
light  step  passes  upstairs.  I  drop  the  basket,  I 
don't  know  why.  There  are  some  reviews  near 
it.  I  take  up  one,  and  am  soon  buried  in  an 
article  on  Tasmanian  fauna.  It  is  strange,  but 
whenever  I  do  know  anything  about  a  subject,  I 
always  find  these  writing  fellows  either  entirely 
ignorant  or  damned  wrong. 

After  supper,  I  took  a  stroll  to  see  the  river. 
It  was  a  silver-gray  evening,  with  just  the  last 
lemon  and  pink  streaks  of  the  sunset  staining 
the  sky.     There  had  been  a  shower,  and  some- 


A   LITTLE   GRAY   GLOVE.  I07 

way  the  smell  of  the  dust  after  rain  mingled 
with  the  mignonette  in  the  garden  brought 
back  vanished  scenes  of  small-boyhood,  when 
I  caught  minnows  in  a  bottle,  and  dreamt  of 
a  shilling  rod  as  happiness  unattainable.  I 
turned  aside  from  the  road  in  accordance  with 
directions,  and  walked  toward  the  stream. 
Holloa  !  some  one  before  me,  —  what  a  bore  ! 
The  angler  is  hidden  by  an  elder-bush,  but  I 
can  see  the  fly  drop  delicately,  artistically,  on 
the  water.  Fishing  up  the  stream,  too  !  There  is 
a  bit  of  broken  water  there,  and  the  midges 
dance  in  myriads;  a  silver  gleam,  and  the  line 
spins  out,  and  the  fly  falls  just  in  the  right  place. 
It  is  growing  dusk,  but  the  fellow  is  an  adept  at 
quick,  fine  casting.  I  wonder  what  fly  he  has 
on,  why  he  's  going  to  try  down  stream  now !  I 
hurry  forward,  and  as  I  near  him  I  swerve  to 
the  left  out  of  the  way.  S-s-s-s  !  a  sudden  sting 
in  the  lobe  of  my  ear.  ''  Hey !  "  I  cry,  as  I 
find  I  am  caught ;  the  tail-fly  is  fast  in  it.  A 
slight,  gray-clad  woman  holding  the  rod  lays  it 
carefully  down  and  comes  toward  me  through 
the  gathering  dusk.  My  first  impulse  is  to 
snap  the  gut  and  take  to  my  heels;  but  I  am 
held  by  something  less  tangible   but  far  more 


I08  KEYNOTES. 

powerful  than  the  grip  of  the  Limerick  hook  in 
my  ear. 

*'  I  am  very  sorry !  "  she  says  in  a  voice  that 
matched  the  evening,  it  was  so  quiet  and  soft; 
''  but  it  was  exceedingly  stupid  of  you  to  come 
behind  like  that." 

"  I  did  n't  think  you  threw  such  a  long  line; 
I  thought  I  was  safe,'*  I  stammered. 

**  Hold  this  !  "  she  says,  giving  me  a  diminu- 
tive fly-book,  out  of  which  she  has  taken  a  pair 
of  scissors.     I  obey  meekly.     She  snips  the  gut. 

**  Have  you  a  sharp  knife?  If  I  strip  the  hook 
you  can  push  it  through;  it  is  lucky  it  isn't  in 
the  cartilage." 

I  suppose  I  am  an  awful  idiot,  but  I  only 
handed  her  the  knife,  and  she  proceeded  as 
calmly  as  if  stripping  a  hook  in  a  man's  ear 
were  an  every-day  occurrence.  Her  gown  is  of 
some  soft  gray  stuff,  and  her  gray-leather  belt 
is  silver  clasped.  Her  hands  are  soft  and  cool 
and  steady,  but  there  is  a  rarely  disturbing 
thrill  in  their  gentle  touch.  The  thought  flashed 
through  my  mind  that  I  had  just  missed  that  — 
a  woman's  voluntary  tender  touch,  not  a  paid 
caress  —  all  my  life. 

*' Now  you  can  push  it  through  yourself;  I 
hope  it  won't  hurt  much." 


A   LITTLE   GRAY   GLOVE.  I09 

Taking  the  hook,  I  push  it  through,  and  a 
drop  of  blood  follows  it.  ^'  Oh !  "  she  cries, 
but  I  assure  her  it  is  nothing,  and  stick  the 
hook  surreptitiously  in  my  coat  sleeve.  Then 
we  both  laugh,  and  I  look  at  her  for  the  first 
time.  She  has  a  very  white  forehead,  with 
little  tendrils  of  hair  blowing  round  it  under 
her  gray  cap ;  her  eyes  are  gray  (I  did  n't  see 
that  then,  —  I  only  saw  they  were  steady, 
smiling  eyes,  that  matched  her  mouth).  Such 
a  mouth !  the  most  maddening  mouth  a  man 
ever  longed  to  kiss,  above  a  too  pointed  chin, 
soft  as  a  child's;  indeed,  the  whole  face  looks 
soft  in  the  misty  light. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  spoilt  your  sport !  "  I  say. 

"  Oh,  that  don't  matter,  it 's  time  to  stop.  I 
got  two  brace,  one  a  beauty." 

She  is  winding  in  her  line,  and  I  look  in  her 
basket;  they  are  beauties,  one  two-pounder, 
the  rest  running  from  a  half  to  a  pound. 

''  What  fly  }  " 

''  Yellow  dun  took  that  one;  but  your  assail- 
ant was  a  partridge  spider." 

I  sling  her  basket  over  my  shoulder;  she 
takes  it  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  we  retrace 
our  steps.     I  feel  curiously  happy  as  we  walk 


no  KEYNOTES. 

toward  the  road ;  there  is  a  novel  delight  in 
her  nearness.  The  feel  of  woman  work^  subtilely 
and  strangely  in  me;  the  rustle  of  her  skirt  as 
it  brushes  the  black-heads  in  the  meadow-grass, 
and  the  delicate  perfume,  partly  violets,  partly 
herself,  that  comes  to  me  with  each  of  her 
movements,  is  a  rare  pleasure.  I  am  hardly 
surprised  when  she  turns  into  the  garden  of 
the  inn ;  I  think  I  knew  from  the  first  that  she 
would. 

*'  Better  bathe  that  ear  of  yours,  and  put  a 
few  drops  of  carbolic  in  the  water."  She  takes 
the  basket  as  she  says  it,  and  goes  into  the 
kitchen. 

I  hurry  over  this,  and  go  into  the  little  sitting- 
room.  There  is  a  tray,  with  a  glass  of  milk 
and  some  oaten  cakes,  upon  the  table.  I  am 
too  disturbed  to  sit  down ;  I  stand  at  the  win- 
dow and  watch  the  bats  flitter  in  the  gathering 
moonlight,  and  Hsten  with  quivering  nerves  for 
her  step ;  perhaps  she  will  send  for  the  tray, 
and  not  come  after  all.  What  a  fool  I  am  to 
be  disturbed  by  a  gray-clad  witch  with  a  tanta- 
lizing mouth !  That  comes  of  loafing  about 
doing  nothing.  I  mentally  darn  the  old  fool 
who  saved  her  money  instead  of  spending   it. 


A   LITTLE   GRAY   GLOVE.  Ill 

Why  the  devil  should  I  be  bothered?  I  don't 
want  it  anyhow.  She  comes  in  as  I  fume,  and 
I  forget  everything  at  her  entrance.  I  push 
the  arm-chair  toward  the  table,  and  she  sinks 
quietly  into  it,  pulling  the  tray  nearer.  She 
has  a  wedding  ring  on ;  but  somehow  it  never 
strikes  me  to  wonder  if  she  is  married  or  a 
widow,  or  who  she  may  be.  I  am  content  to 
watch  her  break  her  biscuit :  she  has  the  pret- 
tiest hands,  and  a  trick  of  separating  her  last 
fingers  when  she  takes  hold  of  anything :  they 
remind  me  of  white  orchids  I  saw  somewhere. 
She  led  me  to  talk,  —  about  Africa,  I  think.  I 
liked  to  watch  her  eyes  glow  deeply  in  the 
shadow  and  then  catch  light  as  she  bent  for- 
ward to  say  something  in  her  quick  responsive 
way. 

"Long  ago  when  I  was  a  girl,"  she  said 
once. 

*'Long  ago?  "I  echo  incredulously,  —  "not 
surely?" 

"  Ah,  but  yes ;  you  have  n't  seen  me  in  the 
daylight,"  with  a  soft  little  laugh.  "  Do  you 
know  what  the  gypsies  say?  'Never  judge  a 
woman  or  a  ribbon  by  candle-light'  They 
might  have  said  moonlight  equally  well." 


112  KEYNOTES. 

She  rises  as  she  speaks,  and  I  feel  an  over- 
powering wish  to  have  her  put  out  her  hand. 
But  she  does  not;  she  only  takes  the  work- 
basket  and  a  book,  and  says  *'  good-night "  with 
an  inclination  of  her  little  head. 

I  go  over  and  stand  next  her  chair ;  I  don't 
like  to  sit  in  it,  but  I  like  to  put  my  hand  where 
her  head  leant,  and  fancy,  if  she  were  there, 
how  she  would  look  up. 

I  woke  next  morning  with  a  curious  sense  of 
pleasurable  excitement;  I  whistled  from  very 
lightness  of  heart  as  I  dressed.  When  I  got 
down  I  found  the  landlady  clearing  away  her 
breakfast  things;  I  felt  disappointed,  and  re- 
solved to  be  down  earlier  in  future.  I  did  n't 
feel  inclined  to  try  the  minnow ;  I  put  them  in 
a  tub  in  the  yard,  and  tried  to  read  and  listen 
for  her  step.  I  dined  alone  ;  the  day  dragged 
terribly.  I  did  not  like  to  ask  about  her ;  I 
had  a  notion  she  might  not  like  it.  I  spent  the 
evening  on  the  river;  I  might  have  filled  a 
good  basket,  but  I  let  the  beggars  rest:  after 
all,  I  had  caught  fish  enough  to  stock  all  the 
rivers  in  Great  Britain ;  there  are  other  things 
than  trout  in  the  world.  I  sit  and  smoke  a  pipe 
where  she  caught  me  last  night.     If  I  half  close 


A   LITTLE   GRAY  GLOVE.  II3 

my  eyes  I  can  see  hers,  and  her  mouth  in  the 
smoke :  that  is  one  of  the  curious  charms  of 
baccy,  —  it  helps  to  reproduce  brain  pictures. 
After  a  bit,  I  think  perhaps  she  has  left.  I  get 
quite  feverish  at  the  thought,  and  hasten  back. 
I  must  ask.  I  look  up  at  the  window  as  I  pass  ; 
there  is  surely  a  gleam  of  white.  I  throw  down 
my  traps  and  hasten  up.  She  is  leaning  with 
her  arms  on  the  window-ledge,  staring  out  into 
the  gloom.  I  could  sw^ear  I  caught  a  sup- 
pressed sob  as  I  entered.  I  cough,  and  she 
turns  quickly  and  bows  slightly.  A  bonnet  and 
gloves  and  lace  affair  and  a  lot  of  papers  are 
lying  on  the  table.  I  am  awfully  afraid  she 
is  going.     I  say,  — 

**  Please  don't  let  me  drive  you  away,  it  is  so 
early  yet.  I  half  expected  to  see  you  on  the 
river." 

**  Nothing  so  pleasant.  I  have  been  up  in 
town  [the  tears  have  certainly  got  into  her 
voice]  all  day ;  it  was  so  hot  and  dusty.  I  am 
tired  out." 

The  little  servant  brings  in  the  lamp  and  a 
tray,  with  a  bottle  of  lemonade.  **  Mistress 
hasn't  any  lemons,  'm;  will  this  do?" 

**  Yes,"  she  says  wearily,  she  is  shading  her 


114  KEYNOTES. 

eyes  with  her  hand ;  **  anything,  I  am  fearfully 
thirsty." 

*'  Let  me  concoct  you  a  drink  instead.  I  have 
lemons  and  ice  and  things;  my  man  sent  me 
down  supplies  to-day ;  I  leave  him  in  town.  I 
am  rather  a  dab  at  drinks ;  learnt  it  from  the 
Yankees :  about  the  only  thing  I  did  learn  from 
them  I  care  to  remember.     Susan !  " 

The  little  maid  helps  me  to  get  the  materials, 
and  she  watches  me  quietly.  When  I  give  it  to 
her  she  takes  it  with  a  smile  (she  has  been  cry- 
ing) that  is  an  ample  thank-you.  She  looks 
quite  old  ;  something  more  than  tiredness  called 
up  those  lines  in  her  face. 

Well,  ten  days  passed.  Sometimes  we  met  at 
breakfast,  sometimes  at  supper ;  sometimes  we 
fished  together,  or  sat  in  the  straggling  orchard 
and  talked  ;  she  neither  avoided  me  nor  sought 
me.  She  is  the  most  charming  mixture  of 
child  and  woman  I  ever  met ;  she  is  a  dual 
creature.  Now,  I  never  met  that  in  a  man. 
When  she  is  here,  without  getting  a  letter  in 
the  morning  or  going  to  town,  she  seems  like  a 
girl ;  she  runs  about  in  her  gray  gown  and  little 
cap,  and  laughs,  and    seems  to  throw    off  all 


A   LITTLE   GRAY   GLOVE.  II5 

thought  like  an  irresponsible  child ;  she  is  eager 
to  fish,  or  pick  cherries  and  eat  them  daintily, 
or  sit  under  the  trees  and  talk.  But  when 
she  goes  to  town  (I  notice  she  always  goes  when 
she  gets  a  lawyer's  letter  ;  there  is  no  mistak- 
ing the  envelope)  she  comes  home  tired  and 
haggard-looking,  an  old  woman  of  thirty-five. 
I  wonder  why.  It  takes  her,  even  with  her 
elasticity  of  temperament,  nearly  a  day  to  get 
young  again.  I  hate  her  to  go  to  town  ;  it  is 
extraordinary  how  I  miss  her !  I  can't  recall, 
when  she  is  absent,  her  saying  anything  very 
wonderful ;  but  she  converses  all  the  time.  She 
has  a  gracious  way  of  filling  the  place  with  her- 
self; there  is  an  entertaining  quality  in  her  very 
presence.  We  had  one  rainy  afternoon ;  she 
tied  me  some  flies  (I  shan't  use  any  of  them).  I 
watched  the  lights  in  her  hair  as  she  moved,  — 
it  is  quite  golden  in  some  places  ;  and  she  has  a 
tiny  mole  near  her  left  ear,  and  another  on  her 
left  wrist.  On  the  eleventh  day  she  got  a  letter  ; 
but  she  did  n't  go  to  town,  she  stayed  up  in 
her  room  all  day.  Twenty  times  I  felt  inclined 
to  send  her  a  line,  but  I  had  no  excuse.  I 
heard  the  landlady  say  as  I  passed  the  kitchen 
window,  "Poor  dear!  I'm  sorry  to  lose  her!'' 


Il6  KEYNOTES. 

Lose  her?  I  should  think  not.  It  has  come  to 
this  'with  me,  that  I  don't  care  to  face  any- 
future  without  her ;  and  yet  I  know  nothing 
about  her,  not  even  if  she  is  a  free  woman.  I 
shall  find  that  out  the  next  time  I  see  her.  In 
the  evening  I  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  gown  in 
the  orchard,  and  I  follow  her.  We  sit  down 
near  the  river.  Her  left  hand  is  lying  gloveless 
next  me  in  the  grass. 

*'  Do  you  think  from  what  you  have  seen  of 
me  that  I  would  ask  a  question  out  of  any  mere 
impertinent  curiosity?" 

She  starts.     '^  No,  I  do  not!" 

I  take  up  her  hand  and  touch  the  ring.  "  Tell 
me,  does  this  bind  you  to  any  one?" 

I  am  conscious  of  a  buzzing  in  my  ears  and 
a  dancing  blur  of  water  and  sky  and  trees,  as 
I  wait  —  it  seems  to  me  an  hour — for  her  reply. 
I  felt  the  same  sensation  once  before,  when  I  got 
drawn  into  some  rapids  and  had  an  awfully 
narrow  shave  ;  but  of  that  another  time. 

The  voice  is  shaking.  **  I  am  not  legally 
bound  to  any  one,  at  least;  but  why  do  you 
ask?  "  She  looks  me  square  in  the  face  as  she 
speaks,  with  a  touch  of  haughtiness  I  never  saw 
in  her  before. 


A   LITTLE   GRAY   GLOVE.  II7 

Perhaps  the  great  reHef  I  feel,  the  sense  of 
joy  at  knowing  she  is  free,  speaks  out  of  my 
face ;  for  hers  flushes  and  she  drops  her  eyes, 
her  lips  tremble.  I  don't  look  at  her  again,  but 
I  can  see  her  all  the  same.  After  a  while  she 
says,  — 

''  I  half  intended  to  tell  you  something  about 
myself  this  evening,  now  I  must.  Let  us  go 
in ;  I  shall  come  down  to  the  sitting-room  after 
your  supper.*' 

She  takes  a  long  look  at  the  river  and  the  inn, 
as  if  fixing  the  place  in  her  memory ;  it  strikes 
me  with  a  chill  that  there  is  a  good-by  in  her 
gaze.  Her  eyes  rest  on  me  a  moment  as  they 
come  back;  there  is  a  sad  look  in  their  gray 
clearness.  She  swings  her  little  gray  gloves 
in  her  hand  as  we  walk  back.  I  can  hear 
her  walking  up  and  down  overhead;  how 
tired  she  will  be,  and  how  slowly  the  time 
goes !  I  am  standing  at  one  side  of  the  win- 
dow when  she  enters ;  she  stands  at  the  other, 
leaning  her  head  against  the  shutter,  with  her 
hands  clasped  before  her.  I  can  hear  my  own 
heart  beating,  and  I  fancy  hers,  through  the 
stillness;  the  suspense  is  fearful.  At  length 
she  says,  — 


Il8  KEYNOTES. 

**  You  have  been  a  long  time  out  of  England, 
you  don't  read  the  papers?  " 

**  No."  A  pause  ;  I  believe  my  heart  is  beat- 
ing inside  my  head. 

''  You  asked  me  if  I  was  a  free  woman.  I 
don't  pretend  to  misunderstand  why  you  asked 
me.  I  am  not  a  beautiful  woman,  I  never  was ; 
but  there  must  be  something  about  me  —  there 
is  in  some  women,  *  essential  femininity '  per- 
haps —  that  appeals  to  all  men.  What  I  read 
in  your  eyes  I  have  seen  in  many  men's  before ; 
but  before  God  I  never  tried  to  rouse  it.  To- 
day [with  a  sob]  I  can  say  I  am  free  ;  yesterday 
morning  I  could  not.  Yesterday  my  husband 
gained  his  case,  and  divorced  me !  "   * 

She  closes  her  eyes  and  draws  in  her  under-lip 
to  stop  its  quivering.  I  want  to  take  her  in 
my  arms  but  I  am  afraid  to. 

"  I  did  not  ask  you  any  more  than  if  you 
were  free  ! " 

''  No  ;  but  I  am  afraid  you  don't  quite  take 
in  the  meaning.  I  did  not  divorce  my  husband, 
he  divorced  me;  he  got  a  decree  nisi.  Do  you 
understand  now?  [She  is  speaking  with  diffi- 
culty.]     Do  you  know  what  that  implies?  " 

I  can't  stand  her  face  any  longer.     I  take  her 


A   LITTLE   GRAY   GLOVE.  Up 

hands,  they  are  icy  cold,  and  hold  them 
tightly. 

**  Yes,  I  know  what  it  implies  ;  that  is,  I  know 
the  legal  and  social  conclusion  to  be  drawn 
from  it,  if  that  is  what  you  mean.  But  I  never 
asked  you  for  that  information.  I  have  nothing 
to  do  with  your  past;  you  did  not  exist  for  me 
before  the  day  we  met  on  the  river.  I  take 
you  from  that  day,  and  I  ask  you  to  marry 
me.'* 

I  feel  her  tremble,  and  her  hands  get  suddenly 
warm.  She  turns  her  head  and  looks  at  me 
long  and  searchingly;    then  she  says, — 

"  Sit  down,  I  want  to  say  something !  ** 

I  obey,  and  she  comes  and  stands  next  the 
chair.  I  can't  help  it,  I  reach  up  my  arm ;  but 
she  puts  it  gently  down. 

"  No,  you  must  listen  without  touching  me. 
I  shall  go  back  to  the  window.  I  don't  want  to 
influence  you  a  bit  by  any  personal  magnetism 
I  possess ;  I  want  you  to  listen.  I  have  told 
you  he  divorced  me.  The  co-respondent  was 
an  old  friend,  a  friend  of  my  childhood,  of  my 
girlhood.  He  died  just  after  the  first  applica- 
tion was  made,  luckily  for  me  ;  he  would  have 
considered  my  honor  before  my  happiness.  / 
did  not  defend  the  case  ;  it  was  n't  likely  —  ah, 


I20  KEYNOTES. 

if  you  knew  all !  He  proved  his  case  ;  given 
clever  counsel,  willing  witnesses  to  whom  you 
make  it  worth  while,  and  no  defence,  divorce  is 
always  attainable  even  in  England.  But  re- 
member, I  figure  as  an  adulteress  in  every 
English-speaking  paper.  If  you  buy  last  week's 
evening  papers  —  do  you  remember  the  day  I 
was  in  town?  "  I  nod.  '^  You  will  see  a  sketch 
of  me  in  that  day's ;  some  one,  perhaps  he,  must 
have  given  it ;  it  was  from  an  old  photograph. 
I  bought  one  at  Victoria  as  I  came  out;  it  is 
funny  [with  an  hysterical  laugh]  to  buy  a 
caricature  of  one's  own  poor  face  at  a  news- 
stall.  Yet  in  spite  of  that  I  have  felt  glad. 
The  point  for  you  is  that  I  made  no  defence  to 
the  world ;  and  [with  a  lifting  of  her  head]  I 
will  make  no  apology,  no  explanation,  no  denial 
to  you,  now  nor  ever.  I  am  very  desolate,  and 
your  attention  came  very  warm  to  me  ;  but  I 
don't  love  you.  Perhaps  I  could  learn  to  [with 
a  rush  of  color]  for  what  you  have  said  to- 
night; and  it  is  because  of  that  I  tell  you  to 
weigh  what  this  means.  Later,  when  your  care 
for  me  will  grow  into  habit,  you  may  chafe  at 
my  past ;   it  is  'from  that  I  would  save  you." 

I  hold  out  my  hands,    and    she    comes    and 
puts   them  aside,  and    takes  me  by  the  beard 


A   LITTLE   GRAY   GLOVE.  121 

and  turns  up  my  face  and  scans  it  earnestly. 
She  must  have  been  deceived  a  good  deal.  I 
let  her  do  as  she  pleases;  it  is  the  wisest  way 
with  women,  and  it  is  good  to  have  her  touch 
me  in  that  way.  She  seems  satisfied.  She 
stands  leaning  against  the  arm  of  the  chair 
and   says,  — 

**  I  must  learn  first  to  think  of  myself  as 
a  free  woman  again ;  it  almost  seems  wrong 
to-day  to  talk  like  this.  Can  you  understand 
that  feeling?" 

I  nod  assent. 

**  Next  time  I  must  be  sure,  and  you  must  be 
sure,"  she  lays  her  fingers  on  my  mouth  as  I 
am  about  to  protest,  "  S-sh !  You  shall  have  a 
year  to  think;  if  you  repeat  then  what  you 
have  said  to-day,  I  shall  give  you  your  answer. 
You  must  not  try  to  find  me ;  I  have  money. 
If  I  am  living  I  will  come  here  to  you ;  if  I  am 
dead  you  will  be  told  of  it.  In  the  year  be- 
tween I  shall  look  upon  myself  as  belonging  to 
you,  and  fender  an  account  if  you  wish  of  every 
hour.  You  will  not  be  influenced  by  me  in 
any  way,  and  you  will  be  able  to  reason  it 
out  calmly.  If  you  think  better  of  it,  don't 
come." 


122  KEYNOTES. 

I  feel  there  would  be  no  use  trying  to  move 
her;   I  simply  kiss  her  hands  and  say,  — 

''  As  you  will,  dear  woman ;   I  shall  be  here." 

We  don't  say  any  more  ;  she  sits  down  on  a 
footstool  with  her  head  against  my  knee,  and  I 
just  smooth  it.  When  the  clocks  strike  ten 
through  the  house,  she  rises,  and  I  stand  up. 
I  see  that  she  has  been  crying  quietly,  —  poor, 
lonely,  little  soul !  I  lift  her  off  her  feet  and 
kiss  her,  and  stammer  out  my  sorrow  at  losing 
her,  and  she  is  gone. 

Next  morning  the  little  maid  brought  me  an 
envelope  from  the  lady  who  left  by  the  first 
train.  It  held  a  little  gray  glove.  That  is  why 
I  carry  it  always,  and  why  I  haunt  the  inn  and 
never  leave  it  for  longer  than  a  week ;  why  I 
sit  and  dream  in  the  old  chair  that  has  a  ghost 
of  her  presence  always,  dream  of  the  spring 
to  come  with  the  May-fly  on  the  wing,  and  the 
young  summer  when  midges  dance,  and  the 
trout  are  growing  fastidious ;  when  she  will 
come  to  me  across  the  meadow  grass,  through 
the  silver  haze,  as  she  did  before,  —  come 
with  her  gray  eyes  shining  to  exchange  herself 
for  her  little  gray  glove. 


AN   EMPTY   FRAME. 

It  was  a  simple,  pretty  little  frame,  such  as  you 
may  buy  at  any  sale  cheaply;  its  ribbed  wood, 
aspinalled  white,  with  an  inner  frame  of  pale- 
blue  plush ;  its  one  noticeable  feature  that  it 
was  empty.  And  yet  it  stood  on  the  middle  of 
the  bedroom  mantelboard. 

It  was  not  a  luxurious  room  ;  none  of  the 
furniture  matched.  It  was  a  typical  boarding- 
house  bedroom. 

Any  one  preserving  the  child  habit  of  endow- 
ing inanimate  objects  with  human  attributes 
might  fancy  that  the  flickering  flames  of  the 
fire  took  a  pleasure  in  bringing  into  relief  the 
bright  bits  in  its  dinginess  ;  for  they  played 
over  the  silver-backed  brushes  and  the  cut-glass 
perfume  bottles  on  the  dressing-table,  flicked 
the  bright  beads  on  the  toes  of  coquettish  small 
shoes  and  the  steel  clasps  of  a  travelling  bag 
in  the  corner,  imparting  a  casual  air  of  comfort 
such  as  the  touch  of  certain  dainty  women 
lends  to  a  common  room. 


124  KEYNOTES. 

A  woman  enters,  —  a  woman  wondrously  soft 
and  swift  in  all  her  movements.  She  seems  to 
reach  a  place  without  your  seeing  how  ;  no 
motion  of  elbow  or  knee  betrays  her.  Her 
fingers  glide  swiftly  down  the  buttons  of  her 
gown  ;  in  a  second  she  has  freed  herself  from 
its  ensheathing;  garment  after  garment  falls 
from  her,  until  she  stands  almost  free.  She 
gets  into  nightdress  and  loose  woollen  dressing- 
gown,  and  slips  her  naked  feet  into  fur-lined 
slippers,  with  a  movement  that  is  somehow  the 
expression  of  an  intense  nervous  relief  from  a 
thrall.  Everything  she  does  is  done  so  swiftly 
that  you  see  the  result  rather  than  the  working 
out  of  each  action. 

She  sinks  into  a  chair  before  the  fire,  and 
clasping  her  hands  behind  her  head,  peers  into 
the  glowing  embers.  The  firelight,  lower  than 
her  face,  touches  it  cruelly  ;  picks  out  and  ac- 
centuates as  remorselessly  as  a  rival  woman  the 
autographs  past  emotions  have  traced  on  its 
surface  ;  deepens  the  hollows  of  her  delicate 
thoughtful  temples  and  the  double  furrow  be- 
tween her  clever  irregular  eyebrows.  Her  face 
is  more  characteristic  than  beautiful.  Nine 
men  would  pass  it,  the  tenth  sell  his  immortal 


AN  EMPTY   FRAME.  12$ 

soul  for  it.  The  chin  is  strong,  the  curve  of 
jaw  determined  ;  there  is  a  httle  full  place  under 
the  chin's  sharp  point.  The  eyes  tell  you  little  ; 
they  are  keen  and  inquiring,  and  probe  others' 
thoughts  rather  than  reveal  their  own.  The 
whole  face  is  one  of  pecuHar  strength  and  self- 
reliance.  The  mouth  is  its  contradiction ;  the 
passionate  curve  of  the  upper  lip  with  its  mobile 
corners,  and  the  tender  little  under  lip  that 
shelters  timidly  under  it,  are  encouraging 
promises   against  its  strength. 

The  paleness  of  some  strong  feeling  tinges 
her  face ;  a  slight  trembling  runs  through  her 
frame.  Her  inner  soul-struggle  is  acting  as  a 
strong  developing  fluid  upon  a  highly  sensitized 
plate;  anger,  scorn,  pity,  contempt  chase  one 
another  like  shadows  across  her  face.  Her  eyes 
rest  upon  the  empty  frame,  and  the  plain 
white  space  becomes  alive  to  her.  Her  mind's 
eye  fills  it  with  a  picture  it  once  held  in  its 
dainty  embrace,  —  a  rare  head  among  the  rarest 
heads  of  men,  with  its  crest  of  hair  tossed  back 
from  the  great  brow,  its  proud  poise  and  the 
impress  of  grand,  confident,  compelling  genius 
that  reveals  itself,  one  scarce  knows  how;  with 
the  brute  possibility  of  an  untamed,  natural  man 


126  KEYNOTES. 

lurking  about  the  mouth  and  powerful  throat. 
She  feels  the  subduing  smile  of  eyes  that  never 
failed  to  make  her  weak  as  a  child  under  their 
gaze,  and  tame  as  a  hungry  bird.  She  stretches 
out  her  hands  with  a  pitiful  little  movement,  and 
then,  remembering,  lets  them  drop,  and  locks 
them  until  the  knuckles  stand  out  whitely.  She 
shuts  her  eyes,  and  one  tear  after  the  other 
starts  from  beneath  her  lids,  trickles  down  her 
cheeks,  and  drops  with  a  splash  into  her  lap. 
She  does  not  sob,  only  cries  quietly ;  and  she 
sees,  as  if  she  held  the  letter  in  her  hand,  the 
words  that  decided  her  fate :  — 

"  You  love  me  ;  I  know  it,  you  other  half  of  me.  You 
want  me  to  complete  your  life,  as  I  you,  you  good, 
sweet  woman ;  you  slight,  weak  thing,  with  your  strong 
will  and  your  grand,  great  heart ;  you  witch,  with  a  soul 
of  clean  white  fire.  I  kiss  your  hands,  —  such  little 
hands  !  I  never  saw  the  like  ;  slim  child-hands,  with  a 
touch  as  cool  and  as  soft  as  a  snow-flake  !  You  dear 
one,  come  to  me  ;  I  want  you,  now,  always.  Be  with 
me,  work  with  me,  share  with  me,  live  with  me, 
my  equal  as  a  creature ;  above  me,  as  my  queen  of 
women  !  I  love  you,  I  worship  you ;  but  you  know 
my  views.  I  cannot,  I  will  not  bind  myself  to  you  by 
any  legal  or  religious  tie.     I  must  be  free  and  unfet- 


AN   EMPTY   FRAME.  12/ 

tered  to  follow  that  which  I  believe  right  for  me.  If 
you  come  to  me  in  all  trust,  I  can  and  will  give  myself 
to  you  in  all  good  faith,  —  yours  as  much  as  you  will, 
forever  !  I  will  kneel  to  you ;  why  should  I  always 
desire  to  kneel  to  you  ?  It  is  not  that  I  stand  in  awe 
of  you,  or  that  I  ever  feel  a  need  to  kneel  at  all ;  but 
always  to  you,  and  to  you  alone.  Come  !  I  will 
crouch  at  your  feet  and  swear  myself  to  you  !  '^ 

And  she  had  replied  **  No !  "  and  in  her  lone- 
liness of  spirit  married  him  who  seemed  to  need 
her  most  out  of  those  who  admired  her. 

The  door  opens,  and  he  comes  in.  He  looks 
inquiringly  at  her,  touches  her  hair  half  hesitat- 
ingly, and  then  stands  with  his  hands  thrust  in 
his  pockets  and  gnaws  his  mustache. 

**  Are  you  angry,  little  woman?  '* 

''  No,"  very  quietly  ;  ''  why  should  I  be?  " 

She  closes  her  eyes  again,  and  after  five 
minutes*  silence  he  begins  to  undress.  He  does 
it  very  slowly,  looking  perplexedly  at  her.  When 
he  has  finished,  he  stands  with  his  back  to  the 
fire,  an  unlovely  object  in  sleeping  suit. 

**  Would  you  like  to  read  her  letter  ?  '* 

She  shakes  her  head. 

'^  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  sent  her  back  her 
letters  before,  you  know.  She  had  n't  heard  I 
was  married." 


128  KEYNOTES. 

"Yes,"  she  interjects,  "it  would  have  been 
better  to  start  with  a  clean  bill ;  but  why  talk 
about  it?" 

He  looks  at  her  awhile,  then  gets  into  bed 
and  watches  her  from  behind  the  pages  of  the 
"  Field."  It  seems  unusually  quiet.  His  watch 
that  he  has  left  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  thrown 
across  the  back  of  a  chair,  seems  to  fill  the 
whole   room  with  a  nervous  tick. 

He  tosses  the  paper  on  to  the  floor.  She 
looks  up  as  it  falls,  rises,  turns  off  the  gas-jet, 
sinks  back  into  her  old  position,  and  stares  into 
the  fire.  He  gets  up,  goes  over,  and  kneels 
down  next  her. 

"  I  am  awfully  sorry  you  are  put  out,  old  girl. 
I  saw  you  were  when  I  answered  you  like  that ; 
but  I  could  n't  help  feeling  a  bit  cut  up,  you 
know.  She  wrote  such  an  awfully  nice  letter, 
you  know,  w^ished  —  " 

"  You  all  sorts  of  happiness,"  with  a  snap, 
"and  hopes  you'll  meet  in  a  better  world?  " 

He  rises  to  his  feet  and  stares  at  her  in 
dumb  amazement.  How  could  she  know? 
She  smiles  with  a  touch  of  malicious  satisfac- 
tion, as  she  sees  the  effect  of  her  chance  shot. 

"  It 's  a  pity,  is  n't  it,  that  you  both  have  to 
wait  so  long?" 


AN   EMPTY    FRAME.  1 29 

He  imagines  he  sees  light,  and  blunders 
ahead  Hke  an  honest  man. 

**  I  would  n't  have  sent  those  things  back  now 
if  I  had  thought  you  cared.  By  Jove,  it  never 
entered  my  head  that  you  'd  be  jealous !  '* 

"Jealous?"  She  is  on  her  feet  like  a  red 
white  flash.  ''I,  jealous  of  her?"  Each  word 
is  emphasized.  **  I  couldn't  be  jealous  of  her, 
Nur  die  Diimmen  sind  bescheiden  !  Why,  the 
girl  is  n't  fit  to  tie  my  shoe-strings !  " 

This  is  too  much ;  he  feels  he  must  protest. 

**  You  don't  know  her,"  feebly.  "  She  is  an 
awfully  nice  girl !  " 

*VNice  girl!"  I  don't  doubt  it;  and  she  will 
be  an  awfully  nice  woman,  and  under  each 
and  every  circumstance  of  life  she  will  behave 
like  an  awfully  nice  person.  Jealous  !  Do  you 
think  I  cried  because  I  was  jealous?  Good 
God,  no !  I  cried  because  I  was  sorry,  fear- 
fully sorry,  for  myself.  She  "  —  with  a  fine  thin 
contempt  —  "  would  have  suited  you  better  than 
I.  Jealous !  no,  only  sorry.  Sorry  because 
any  nice  average  girl  of  her  type,  who  would 
model  her  frocks  out  of  the  *  Lady's  Pictorial,' 
gush  over  that  dear  Mr.  Irving,  paint  milking- 
stools,  try  poker-work,  or  any  other  fashion- 
9 


I30  KEYNOTES. 

able  fad,  would  have  done  you  just  as  well. 
And  I  "  —  with  a  catch  of  voice  —  '*  with  a  great 
man  might  have  made  a  great  woman ;  and  now 
those  who  know  and  understand  me  [bitterly] 
think  of  me  as  a  great  failure." 

She  finishes  wearily ;  the  fire  dies  out  of 
eyes  and  voice.  She  adds  half  aloud,  as  if  to 
herself,  — 

*^  I  don't  think  I  quite  realized  this  until  I 
saw  how  you  took  that  letter.  I  was  watching 
your  face  as  you  read  it ;  and  the  fact  that  you 
could  put  her  on  the  same  level,  that  if  it  had 
not  been  for  a  mistake  she  would  have  suited 
you  as  well,  made  me  realize,  don't  you  see? 
that  I  would  have  done  some  one  else  better!  " 

He  is  looking  at  her  in  utter  bewilderment, 
and  she  smiles  as  she  notes  his  expression ;  she 
touches  his  cheek  gently,  and  leans  her  head 
against  his  arm. 

"There  it's  all  right,  boy!  Don't  mind  me. 
I  have  a  bit  of  a  complex  nature;  you  couldn't 
understand  me  if  you  tried  to,  and  better  not 
try !  "      " 

She  has  slipped,  while  speaking,  her  warm 
bare  foot  out  of  her  slipper,  and  is  rubbing  it 
gently  over  his  chilled  ones. 


AN   EMPTY   FRAME.  131 

*'  You  are  cold,  better  go  back  to  bed ;  I  shall 
go  too !  " 

She  stands  a  moment  quietly  as  he  turns  to 
obey,  and  then  takes  the  frame,  and  kneeling 
down  puts  it  gently  into  the  hollowed  red  heart 
of  the  fire.  It  crackles  crisply,  and  little 
tongues  of  flame  shoot  up;  and  she  gets  into 
bed  by  their  light. 

When  the  fire  has  burnt  out,  and  he  is  sleep- 
ing like  a  child  with  his  curly  head  on  her 
breast,  she  falls  asleep  too,  and  dreams  that  she 
is  sitting  on  a  fiery  globe  rolling  away  into  space ; 
that  her  head  is  wedged  in  a  huge  frame,  the 
top  of  her  head  touches  its  top,  the  sides  its 
sides,  and  it  keeps  growing  larger  and  larger, 
and  her  head  with  it,  until  she  seems  to  be 
sitting  inside  her  own  head,  and  the  inside  is 
one  vast  hollow. 


UNDER  NORTHERN   SKY. 
I. 

HOW   MARIE   LARSEN   EXORCISED   A  DEMON. 

There  has  been  a  mighty  storm;  it  has  been 
raging  for  two  days,  —  a  storm  in  which  the 
demon  of  drink  has  reigned  like  a  sinister  god 
in  the  big  white  house,  and  the  frightened 
women  have  cowered  away,  driven  before  the 
hot  blast  of  the  breath  upon  which  curses 
danced,  and  the  blaze  of  ire  in  the  lurid  eyes  of 
the  master.  Only  the  pale  little  mistress  has 
stood  unmoved  through  the  whirlwind  of  his 
passion.  Who  knows?  Maybe  that  roused 
him  to  higher,  madder  paroxysms  of  impotent 
rage;  for  he  abuses  her  most  when  he  loves 
her  most,  —  a  way  man  has,  he  being  a  creature 
of  higher  understanding. 

All  yesterday  the  bells  jangled,  until  one  by 
one  a  violent  jerk  snapped  the  connecting  wire, 
and  hurled  them  with  a  last  echoing  crash  on 
the  hall  floor.     The  serving-men  kept  out  of  it, 


HOW   MARIE  EXORCISED   A   DEMON.      1 33 

as  men  do.  The  horses  cowered  to  the  sides  of 
their  boxes,  and  set  their  hind  legs  hard,  and 
pointed  their  ears  when  they  heard  his  hahing 
step.  The  great  hounds  shrank  shiveringly 
into  their  boxes,  and  refused  to  come  forth  at 
his  threatening  call ;  and  when  he  lashed  their 
houses  in  his  rage  they  winced  at  each  blow, 
and  showed  their  fangs  when  he  turned  away. 

Night  brought  little  rest,  for  lamps  and  can- 
dles were  lit  in  every  room.  Champagne  re- 
placed brandy ;  then  brandy,  champagne ;  and 
then  both  mingled  in  one  glass.  And  in  meas- 
ure as  the  liquid  fire  was  tossed  down  the  poor 
parched  throat,  the  brain  grew  clearer ;  the 
intellect,  with  its  Rabelaisque  fertility  of  dis- 
eased imagining,  keener ;  the  sting  the  tongue 
carried  more  adder-like,  and  the  ingenuity  of 
its  blasphemies  more  devilish.  The  tired  women 
crept  to  bed  at  midnight,  to  start  in  their  sleep 
at  the  hoot  of  every  night-owl,  the  flitter  of 
every  bat,  and  the  whistle  of  every  passing 
steamer,  —  all  save  the  little  mistress  of  the 
great  house,  with  its  stores  of  linen  and  silver, 
its  flower-filled  garden,  its  farmyard  with  lowing 
sleek  kine,  its  meadows  in  prime  heart  heavy 
with   the  sweetness  of  red   clover,    its   line    of 


134  KEYNOTES. 

brown  nets  pegged  down  to  catch  the  incoming 
eager  salmon  at  the  mouth  of  the  fjord,  and  the 
wood  with  its  peaceful  nooks  of  cool  green  and 
its  winding  paths,  with  their  brown  carpet  of 
last  year's  pine-needles  and  fir-cones.  She  sits 
wearily  in  her  low  chair,  with  her  thin  hands 
clasped  on  her  sharp  knees  and  her  shawl 
drawn  round  her  shoulders,  for  in  spite  of  the 
fire  the  first  hour  of  the  morning  sends  its  chill 
breath  into  the  room.  He  is  lying  on  the  sofa 
talking  to  himself,  emphasizing  his  words  with 
his  heavy  stick.  A  table  with  decanters  and 
glasses  stands  next  him. 

"  Women  !  ay,  women  !  man's  curse.  At  the 
end  of  the  race  they  beat  us  always.  We  get 
one  soft  spot  with  our  mother's  milk,  and  well 
they  know  it,  well  they  know  it.  What  a  man 
I  would  have  been  [a  rising  growl]  if  it  had  n't 
been  for  women !  Do  you  hear,  you  white- 
faced  spawn?  Yes,  I  mean  it.  God!  when  I 
look  back  —  But  [chuckling]  I  paid  them  out, 
the  brutes !  " 

And  curse  follows  curse,  and  worse  than  that; 
as  from  the  lips  of  the  stepdaughter  in  the  fairy 
tale,  the  words  that  drop  from  his  lips  are  the 
toads  and  vipers  of  filth. 


HOW   MARIE   EXORCISED   A   DEMON.      1 35 

"  If  one  could  forget !  There  was  one,  one 
long  ago,  —  I  might  have  spared  her ;  she 
pleaded  hard  against  me.  Why  do  I  think  of 
her  to-night?  It  is  years,  years  ago.  Ah,  but 
I  was  big  and  beautiful  in  those  days !  She, 
she  was  an  innocent  little  thing.  I  fascinated 
her  like  a  snake,  and  I  can  see  her  eyes.  They 
were  blue,  with  long  lashes.  I  can  see  them  noWy 
curse  them  !  She  and  the  child,  gibbering  idiots 
both!  Oh  [groan],  curses  on  you  for  a  devil, 
to  plague  me  thus  !  Keep  away  !  I  say,  keep 
away  !  How  the  ghosts  dance  about  the  room  ! 
There  is  another  one  I  had  forgotten.  Light 
more  candles,  more !  [a  shriek]  more !  I  say, 
all  round  the  room  !  make  a  damn  wake  of  it !  " 

Mutter,  mutter,  —  a  sourdine  epic  of  Hades. 
She  closes  her  eyes.  The  stick  whirls  past  her, 
striking  a  vase  off  a  table  near  her  ;  she  gets 
up,  hands  it  to  him  without  a  word.  He  hic- 
coughs and  laughs  ;  and  then  he  heaves  one 
sob,  and  cries  bitterly,  with  the  great  tears 
gushing  forth  in  jets.  She  picks  up  his  hand- 
kerchief and  puts  it  into  his  hand,  and  he  looks 
at  her  with  a  piteous  softening  of  his  wild  eyes ; 
and  he  says  quietly,  hiccoughing  all  the  while 
like  a  child  tired   after  a  fit  of  passion,  —  for 


136  KEYNOTES. 

man  in  all  his  passions  has  a  little  of  the  incon- 
sequent child ;  it  is  only  woman  who  si'ns  with 
clear  seeing,  — 

**  I  am  a  brute,  I  know  it;  but  you  don't 
know  what  it  is  to  see  the  ghosts  of  sins  stirring 
in  a  man's  soul  like  maggots  in  a  dead  rat. 
And  the  children,  that  is  the  worst  of  all.  Oh, 
God  !  my  poor  little  girls  !  What  will  become 
of  them?     Oh,  oh!" 

"  But  you  settled  for  them !  "  soothing  with 
her  weary  voice.  "  But  you  settled  for  them 
all  right!" 

"Oh,  yes,  the  money 's  all  right;  oh.  Lord, 
yes !  I  settled,  I  settled,"  with  the  reiteration  of 
drunken  gravity,  *^  I  settled  that.  But  the 
mother  was  a  brute,  a  heartless  brute ;  and  she 
was  a  lady  too,  ay,  in  her  own  right.  And  she 
never  asked  a  word  about  them,  not  one  word ; 
it  was  I,  I,  poor  disreputable  brute,  that  put 
them  to  nurse,  and  I  loathed  her  for  it.  Ah, 
if  you  women  knew^  what  a  hold  simple  good- 
ness has  on  us !  I  met  her  once,  I  had  one  at 
each  hand  ;  I  used  to  go  to  see  them.  Oh,  they 
don't  know,  they  don't  know,  God  forbid  !  and 
she  lay  back  in  her  victoria  and  looked  at  us, 
curse  her!     She  has  children  now,  legitimate 


HOW   MARIE   EXORCISED   A  DEMON.        1 37 

ones,  and  my  little  girls  don't  know  I  'm  alive. 
Oh,  my  poor  little  girls  !  They  are  so  pretty ! 
Mind  you  bury  that  locket  with  me;  don't  open 
it !  Yes,  yes,  I  know  ;  don't  think  I  don't  trust 
you,  —  only  woman  I  ever  trusted  in  the  world. 
But  I  'm  afraid  for  them :  curse  this  water  in 
my  eyes  [sob]  ;  don't  you  imagine  I  'm  crying, 
I  'm  not !  It 's  whiskey,  pure,  unadulterated 
[hiccough]  whiskey;  but  I  can't  help  thinking 
of  them.  The  others,  ay.  Lord !  how  many 
others  ?  I  don't  care  about  them,  I  settled  for 
them;  they  weren't  ladies ^  they'll  get  on  well 
enough ;  but  these  my  pretty  little  ones,  I  'm 
afraid  for  them,  afraid  for  them  !  I,  who  spared 
no  man's  daughter,  how  can  I  tell  if  some  brute 
won't  hurt  mine?  Oh,  God!  oh,  God!  how 
can  they  be  good  with  such  a  father  and  such 
a  mother?  " 

He  drinks  as  he  speaks,  and  pours  out  in 
grief  and  rage  a  wild  torrent  of  prayers  and 
curses. 

'*  Ay,  verily,  it 's  reaping  the  whirlwind  !  How 
the  faces  crowd  round !  they  always  come  with 
the  gray  morning  light,  —  women's  faces,  girls' 
faces,  child-girls'  faces  —  oh,  damn  you  !  hide 
me  from  them !   hold  me  tight  and  keep  them 


138  KEYNOTES. 

away !  put  your  arms  right  round  me !  you  are 
clean,  a  clean  little  thing,  —  they  can't  come 
through  you." 

And  she  holds  the  throbbing  head  in  her 
arms,  and  hides  the  wild  eyes  in  her  breast, 
and  she  feels  as  if  there  is  a  rustle  of  trailing 
skirts  about  her,  and  waving  hair  and  a  feel  of 
women  ;  and  then  he  tears  himself  out  of  her 
clasp,  and  she  falls,  bruising  herself  sorely ;  and 
he  throws  over  the  table,  with  a  shatter  of 
falling  glass,  and  bounds  up  the  stairs,  snatch- 
ing a  riding-whip  out  of  the  hall  ;  and  he  beats 
its  gold  head  into  jagged  shreds  of  glitter  on 
the  maids'  door,  and  shouts  to  them  to  rise  and 
come  down.  He  '11  show  them  he  is  master  in 
his  own  house !  He  has  eaten  nothing  all  day, 
—  no,  nor  for  many  days !  down  at  once,  or 
he  '11  know  why,  and  cook,  cook  his  dinner  and 
light  fires,  —  yes,  fires  everywhere  !  What  does 
he  pay  them  for,  lazy  sluts !  what  does  he  keep 
house  for? 

And  so,  man,  the  master  mind  of  creation, 
asserts  his  authority,  and  the  maids  troop  down, 
heavy-eyed  and  stupid  with  sleep ;  and  bake 
and  roast,  and  giggle  hysterically  under  their 
breaths,   and  tell  stories  of  other  masters  they 


HOW   MARIE  EXORCISED   A  DEMON.        1 39 

have  served,  and  goings  on,  and  grind  fresh 
coffee-beans,  and  have  white  bread  and  lump 
sugar  and  cold  fowl,  for  there  is  no  one  to  say 
them  nay,  and  the  larders  are  full  of  good 
things  ;  and  only  the  pale  little  mistress  knows 
how  near  the  grand  place  is  drawing  to 
bankruptcy. 

Morning  came,  and  the  table  was  decked 
and  the  dinner  served,  and  taken  out  again 
untasted ;  and  another  storm  simmered  all 
through  the  sunny  forenoon,  to  burst  like  a 
hurricane  over  the  house  at  noon. 

The  kitchen  is  empty  and  the  fire  has  gone 
out;  a  wreck  of  crockery  shows  where  the 
storm  raged  worst.  The  girls  flew  before  the 
thunder  of  voice  and  flash  of  whip  ;  the  Swedish 
gardener  left  his  birthright  of  song  untouched, 
and  followed  them :  he  is  skylarking  with  them 
now  up  in  the  great  loft;  they  have  pulled  up 
the  ladder,  and  are  pelting  one  another  with 
last  year's  hay.  The  cow-girl,  a  wench  from 
Hittedal,  lured  the  cattle  and  goats  and  long- 
legged  heifer  calves  deeper  into  the  woods 
with  her  quaint  Lokke  song,  calling,  — 

"Come,  sweet  breath,  come  cowslip,  come  rich  milk, 
Aa  lukelei  aa  lura,  lura,  luralai !  " 


I40  KEYNOTES. 

Only  the  housemaid,  who  is  consumptive,  and 
who  stays  for  the  Httle  mistress's  sake,  her  own 
days  in  the  land  being  numbered,  has  taken 
her  Bible  up  to  the  lookout  in  the  wood,  and 
laid  it  open  on  the  stone  table.  She  is  crushing 
the  Linnae,  as  she  kneels,  into  a  fragrant  incense, 
rocking  to  and  fro  to  the  somber  rhythm  of 
the  last  book  of  Ecclesiastes. 

And  the  master  of  them  all  is  sitting  ex- 
hausted in  his  big  chair,  and  Marie  Larsen  and 
he  are  doing  battle.  She  came  on  the  scene 
just  as  the  grand  retreat  was  sounded,  and  took 
the  enemy  by  stratagem.  She  lifted  the  little 
mistress  bodily  up,  and  carried  her  upstairs, 
leaving  him,  as  she  puts  it,  "  to  ramp  like  a  bull 
of  Basan  below."  She  lays  her  on  her  bed, 
takes  off  her  shoes,  pulls  down  the  blind,  and 
pours  out  some  drops  out  of  a  little  blue  bottle 
she  carries  in  her  pocket,  talking  as  she  might 
to  a  child :  "  There,  Tulla,  take  naptha  drops, 
very  good  drops  ;  you  go  sleep,  good  sleep ; 
Marie  mind  him,  Marie  not  afraid,"  and  with  a 
final  pat  she  goes  down.  He  is  laughing  be- 
tween his  oaths  at  the  stampede  of  petticoats, 
and  he  holds  out  his  arms  when  she  comes  in. 
She  is  a   little  square  woman,  between  fifty 


HOW   MARIE   EXORCISED   A   DEMON.        141 

and  sixty,  with  a  ruby  button  of  a  nose,  hair, 
that  oil  and  age  has  robbed  of  its  brilliant  red, 
drawn  smoothly  back  into  a  tight  screw  at  the 
back  of  her  broad  head.  Her  eyes  are  a  fishy 
green  gray,  the  left  eyelid  droops;  when  she 
thinks  you  are  not  looking,  a  sly  elusive  gleam 
brightens  them,  her  pursed  lips  loosen,  and  if 
you  happen  to  see  it,  you  think  that  there  may 
be  something  after  all  in  the  stories  the  gossips 
whisper  of  Marie  Larsen.  Her  dress  is  ex- 
quisitely neat,  her  apron  snowy.  No  one  in 
the  district  can  make  such  a  supreme  of  fish  as 
Marie ;  no  one  can  beat  her  at  roasting  a  caper- 
cailzie and  serving  it  with  sour  cream  sauce,  or 
brew  such  caudles  and  possets  for  a  lying-in,  or 
bake  such  meats  for  a  funeral  feast.  And  what 
if  there  be  an  old-time  tale  of  a  brat  accidentally 
smothered?  And  what  if  the  Amtmanden 
(superior  magistrate),  he  who  had  the  sickly 
wife,  did  send  Marie  to  Germany  to  learn 
cooking?  Well,  he  had  money  to  spare,  and 
was  always  freehanded.  And  if  Nils  Pettersen 
did  write  home  and  say  that  he  saw  her  in 
Hamburg  at  a  trade  —  well,  other  than  cooking, 
sure  Nils  Pettersen  was  a  bit  of  a  liar  anyhow, 
and  good  cooking  covers  a  multitude  of  frailties. 


142  KEYNOTES. 

And  if  her  nose  was  red  and  her  breath  smelt  of 
cloves,  who  could  say  they  ever  saw  her  buy  a 
bottle  of  akavit,  —  and  that  was  more  than  could 
be  said  of  all  the  other  temperance  leaguers. 
She  had  a  nice  cottage,  with  marigolds  and 
curly-mint  and  none-so-prettys  nodding  down 
the  garden  paths ;  and  if  you  went  inside  it  was 
very  respectable,  and  you  could  not  fail  to 
notice  the  large  brass-bound  Bible  on  a  crochet- 
square  on  top  of  the  mahogany  chest  of  drawers, 
with  a  sprig  of  palm  marking  the  gospel  of  the 
previous  Sunday.  And  no  one  answered  the 
responses  more  loudly,  or  confessed  more  openly 
at  revival  times,  or  quoted  Scripture  more  aptly 
to  the  confusion  of  a  neighbor  than  Jomfru 
Marie  Larsen.  And  then  she  had  seen  life  too, 
and  told  them  round  the  oven  in  winter  over  a 
cup  of  good  coffee  "tales  that  were  human," 
just  to  warn  them  what  risks  they  might  run  if 
they  should  be  tempted  to  stray  to  the  ungodly 
cities  of  the  wicked  world  outside. 

She  stands  and  smiles  at  him.  "Arcades 
ambo  !  Blackguards  both  !  '*  quotes  he,  point- 
ing to  a  glass.  She  pours  him  out  a  measure 
and  blinks,  and  fills  a  wine-glass  with  raw  spirit 
for  herself,  and  clinks  glasses  and  sips  like  a 


HOW   MARIE   EXORCISED   A   DEMON.        143 

connoisseur;  and  then  she  takes  out  her  knit- 
ting and  sets  the  needles  flying.  So  they  sit 
awhile  ;  his  last  grand  charge  has  taxed  him, 
but  the  quiet  maddens  him. 

"  Where  's  the  Frue?  '*  he  asks,  "  the  Frue?  " 

She  lays  her  head  sideways  on  her  hand  and 
closes  her  eyes,  saying  in  English:  "No  can 
have  Fruen ;  she  sick,  no  can  have  her;  be  good, 
Marie  tell  you  a  tale." 

She  gets  up  and  shuts  the  doors ;  he  roars  at 
her  and  tries  to  rise,  but  his  knees  fail  him  ;  he 
sinks  back  into  the  chair  and  begins  to  swear. 
She  knits  away,  and  commences  in  Norwegian 
a  sing-song  recitative  like  the  drowsy  buzz  of  a 
fly  on  a  pane. 

"  Yesterday  we  had  a  bazaar,  a  bazaar  in  the 
school-house,  —  a  bazaar  for  the  poor  black 
heathens  in  Africa,  for  the  poor  black  heathens 
lost  in  the  darkness  of  unbelief,  and  ignorant  of 
the  saving  of  the  Lamb.  Oh,  it  was  a  blessed 
work !  " 

A  savage  roar  from  him  ;  but  she  goes  on 
unheeding  with  her  narrative:  — 

**  And  there  were  tables,  with  lots  of  things  to 
be  sold ;  and  there  were  tables  with  refreshments ; 
and  there  were  wreaths  and  flags  upon  the  walls, 


144  KEYNOTES. 

and  godly  texts  and  paper  roses,  yellow  and 
red." 

She  draws  out  each  word  to  spin  the  yarn 
longer,  and  he  curses  her  for  a  Jezebel  and 
foams  with  rage,  and  she  sips  her  cognac  with  a 
deeper  droop  of  eyelid  and  slower  click  of  needle, 
and  proceeds  with  her  tale :  — 

"  And  we  had  hymns,  and  the  kapelan  [curate] 
played  the  harmonium ;  and  then  he  held  a  little 
edifying  discourse,  and  the  school  children  sang, 
and  Marie  had  to  hand  round  refreshments,  and 
oh  it  was  a  rousing  day !  And  there  was 
Frue  ^  Magistrate  Holmsen,  and  Frue  Assessor 
Schwartz,  and  Frue  Custom-House  Chiefs  lady 
and  her  sister  Froken  Dase,  she  of  the  long 
nose  and  pinched  waist,  and  her  engaged  the 
Candidat.  And  there  was  Frue  Doctor  Barthel- 
sen,  and  Frue  General-Dealer  Steen  and  daugh- 
ter, with  a  high  frill  to  hide  the  evils  in  her 
neck,  and   Frue  Insurance  Agent  —  *' 

She  dodges  a   glass  adroitly,  and  raises  her 

-  The  title  "  Frue  "  is  properly  borne  by  the  wives  of  offi- 
cials, but  all  the  professional  men's  wives  bear  it.  "  Madam  " 
is  used  by  the  small  shopkeepers  or  lower  burgher  class,  but 
the  distinction  is  dying  out.  A  Frue's  daughter  is  Froken ; 
Madam's  Jeomfrue. 


HOW   MARIE   EXORCISED   A   DEMON.        145 

voice  to  drown  his  shriek  of  what  the  merry 
devil  she  means. 

**  Insurance  Agent  Hansen,  and  the  Kaptein 
of  the  'Sea  Guir —  S-s-s,  you  be  quiet, 
Marie  tell  you  tale.  There  was  M'am  Sorensen 
and  fat  M'am  Larsen,  —  she 's  going  to  have 
her  twelfth,  and  Larsen  only  third  mate,  —  and 
M'am  Johnsen  and  all  the  young  gentlemen 
and  ladies,  and  oh  it  was  a  glorious  sight !  " 

She  starts  a  key  higher,  for  he  is  purple  with 
fury  and  exertion,  — 

*'  And,  and  we  had  coffee  two-pence  a  cup, 
and  chocolade  [with  a  long-drawn  stress  on  the 
*  lade  ']  and  Brus-selzers  and  lemonade  and  fruit 
juice  and  temperance  beer  —  No,  no  !  you  be 
quiet,  Marie  tell  tale  !  " 

He  is  struggling  till  the  veins  stand  in  cords 
to  get  out  of  his  chair,  but  in  vain ;  he  points  to 
his  glass  in  desperation.  She  refills  it  and  her 
own. 

*'  Yes,  temperance  beer,  a  penny  a  glass ;  and 
we  had  white  bread  and  brown  bread  and  currant 
buns  and  Berlin  kringels  and  ginger-nuts  and  little 
cakes  with  hundreds  and  thousands  on  top ! 
And  oh  it  was  grand  !  " 

She  is  yelling  louder  and  louder,  and  he  is 


146  KEYNOTES. 

swearing  deeper,  and  the  battle  shows  no  signs 
of  ceasing. 

"  And  then  we  sold  all  sorts  of  things,  and 
drew  numbers,  and  had  a  lucky  bag;  and  Hans 
Jacobsen  played  on  the  melodeon ;  and  mission- 
ary Hansen  told  us  about  the  poor  blacks  and 
all  his  blessed  work,  and  how  the  Lord  guided 
his  footsteps  through  the  sandy  wastes,  and  how 
he  baptized  a  chief  and  all  his  wives  in  the 
waters  of  faith.  And  Nils  Pettersen  says  they 
took  out  more  raw  alcohol  and  spent  gun-pow- 
der and  spoilt  cotton  goods  than  the  fear  of  God ; 
and  that  the  '  Bird  o'  Faith  '  cleared  one  hundred 
per  cent  on  her  freight.  But  Nils  Pettersen  was 
always  a  liar  ;  and  oh  it  was  a  blessed  thing  to 
do  all  that  for  the  heathen  blacks  !  And  then 
the  kapelan  spoke  again,  a  touching  discourse  !  " 

And  she  refills  her  glass,  dodging  his  stick 
and  watching  him  out  of  the  tail  of  her  eye  as 
she  turns  the  heel  of  her  stocking,  and  repeats 
the  whole  of  the  sermon.  His  vocabulary  is 
exhausted,  and  he  is  inventing  the  weirdest 
oaths,  hurling  them  forth,  a  deep  accompani- 
ment to  her  shriller  sermon,  with  its  sanctimoni- 
ous sing-song  tune  and  unctuous  phrasing ;  for 
she  is,  perhaps  unwittingly,  mimicking  the  kape- 


HOW   MARIE   EXORCISED   A   DEMON.        147 

Ian  to  the  life.  He  is  getting  tired  and  drowsy, 
the  cognac  is  rising  to  her  head,  and  even  a 
kapelan  s  sermon  must  draw  to  a  close  ;  and  as  a 
mother  will  change  her  lullaby  into  a  quick 
hushoo,  and  pat  mechanically  with  a  drowsy  nod 
as  the  child  drops  to  sleep,  so  Marie  puts  her 
knitting  tidily  into  her  apron  pocket,  and  folding 
her  withered  old  hands  breaks  into  a  hymn.  He 
opens  his  eyes  languidly,  and  protests  feebly 
with  a  last  damn ;  but  Marie  has  exorcised  the 
devil  this  time.  His  jaw  drops,  and  muttering 
softly,  he  falls  into  heavy  sleep ;  and  she  sings 
on,  till  her  head  too  droops  on  her  breast,  and 
her  quavering  old  woman's  voice  dies  away  in 
an  abortive  allelujah ! 

And  the  motes  dance  in  the  golden  bar  of  a 
waning  sun-ray  that  pierces  the  room  and 
crosses  the  motionless  figures ;  and  above  stairs 
the  little  mistress  is  wrapped  in  rare,  delicious, 
dreamless  slumber.  And  I  like  to  think  that 
the  recording  angel  registered  that  sleep  to  the 
credit  of  Jomfrue  Marie  Larsen ! 


TI. 

A   SHADOW'S   SLANT. 

It  is  a  sunny  afternoon  in  mid-summer.  A 
phaeton  drawn  by  a  pair  of  sturdy  gray 
Stavanger  horses,  whose  dainty  heads  and  the 
mark  of  Saint  Olav's  thumb  on  their  throats  tell 
their  race,  is  dashing  along  at  a  break-neck 
pace.  The  whip  curls  over  them,  and  the 
vehicle  sways  a  little  to  one  side.  Two  great 
hounds  bound  along  on  the  right  of  it. 

A  strip  of  blue  Qord  and  a  background  of 
dark  mountains,  with  the  cool  ice-kisses  of  the 
snow  queen  still  resting  on  their  dusky  heads, 
can  be  seen  at  intervals  through  the  fir  and 
pine  trees.  A  squirrel  scrambles  up  a  rowan- 
tree,  and  a  cattle-bell  tingles  far  in  the  woods. 
Nature  has  ever  a  discordant  note  in  its 
symphony.  A  little  brown  bird  is  fluttering  in 
helpless,  terrified  jerks ;  it  emits,  as  it  rises  and 
falls,  a  sharp  sound  between  a  chirp  and  a 
squeak.     A  hawk  is  swooping  over  it :  a  poise  — 


A  shadow's  slant.  149 

a  dip  —  a  few  feathers  float  with  the  breeze,  and 
hawk  soars  up  with  its  prey  in  its  claws. 

The  red-brown  eyes  that  gleam  out  of  the 
small,  sallow  face  of  the  woman  who  sits  on 
the  left  side  of  the  phaeton  close  for  a  second ; 
the  delicate  nostrils  quiver,  the  lips  tighten  over 
a  sigh;  then  the  lids  rise  again,  the  eyes  'are 
darker,  the  pupils  have  a  trick  of  dilating;  a 
smile  subtle  in  meaning,  for  much  of  mocking 
pain  and  bitterness  is  expressed  in  its  brief 
passage,  flits  across  her  face. 

A  savage  jerk  !  the  horses  stop. 

"  Kiss  me !  "  says  the  man  who  is  driving. 
His  voice  is  harsh,  and  the  eyes  that  scan  her  face 
have  a  lurid  light  in  them ;  and  as  he  speaks  a 
smell  of  spirit  mingles  with  the  smell  of  the 
pine  chips.  Her  lips  tighten  still  more;  she 
turns  to  obey.  She  has  to  rise  up  a  little  ;  he  is 
very  tall.  His  nose  is  powerful  like  a  hawk's 
beak,  and  his  beard  is  stirred  by  the  breeze, 
and  his  eyes  peer  out  from  under  their  fringe  of 
black  lashes  with  a  cruel,  passionate  gleam.  She 
almost  touches  his  face,  but  falls  back  from  a 
rough  shove : — 

*'  No  !  keep  your  kiss  and  be  damned  to  you  ! '' 

A  savage  whoop,  the  whip  curls  out  and  the 


1 50  KEYNOTES. 

reins  jerk,  and  the  quivering  horses  that  know 
the  voice  too  well  dash  on  ;  and  the  hounds 
that  have  felt  the  whip-cord  sting,  as  the 
strike  of  a  snake  on  their  flanks,  bay  savagely 
as  they  join  in  the  race. 

On  the  right  of  the  narrow,  winding  road  a 
great  lake  lies  hundreds  of  feet  below;  the 
wheel  is  not  half  a  foot  from  the  edge,  and  the 
vehicle  jolts  and  leans  that  way,  and  the  lash 
coils  round  and  flicks  her  cheek,  and  leaves  a 
sorry  sting,  —  and  she  never  winces  at  it,  but  her 
small  hands  clinch,  and  her  lips  part,  and  the 
red  light  flashes  in  her  eyes,  and  something  akin 
to  exultant  expectation  steals  over  the  thin 
small  face  as  they  court  death  each  wheel-turn 
in  their  mad  career. 

The  stable-door  opens,  and  the  horses  turn 
their  heads.  She  —  it  is  she  —  goes  and  passes 
her  fingers  gently  over  the  swollen  stripes  that 
make  little  ridges  in  the  close-clipped  hair. 
Once  she  lays  her  cheek  caressingly  upon  a 
cruel  furrow,  and  whispers,  ^*  Poor  little  Ola  !  if  I 
had  only  governed  my  face  better,  you  would 
not  have  been  so  punished !  "  and  Ola  turns 
his    satiny   muzzle,    softer   than    the    daintiest 


A  shadow's  slant.  151 

lady's  breast,  and  rubs  it  against  her,  to  coax 
for  the  apples  that  always  follow.  She  goes 
from  one  to  the  other,  and  cooes  to  them,  and 
rubs  her  chin  against  their  soft  noses  ;  and  when 
the  stripes  are  very  bad  her  jaws  set,  and  one 
can  see  the  mark  of  the  teeth  through  her  thin 
cheeks. 

*'  Come  here !  I  want  some  brandy !  .  .  . 
Now  put  the  glass  down  and  come  back. 
What's  that  mark  on  your  cheek?*' 

**  Only  the  whip  touched  me." 

"  And  you  were  too  damned  proud  to  say  so, 
eh?  By  the  way,  I  saw  some  gypsies  in  the 
park.  Johann  can  do  the  translating,  they  are 
coming  here  to  play.  One  of  them  is  a  thunder- 
ing fine  girl ;  I  'd  Hke  to  —  What !  what 's 
that   you  said?" 

"  I  did  not  make  any  remark !  "  a  fine  scorn 
trembles  about  her  pale  lips,  and  her  face  is  a 
shade  grayer. 

A  pause. 

"  Where  are  your  rings?  " 

"  Upstairs." 

"  Go  and  fetch  them  !  Blast  it !  I  don't  buy 
you  rings  to  leave  them  upstairs." 


152  KEYNOTES. 

She  comes  back  with  them  on,  and  he  takes 
up  the  slim  fingers  laden  with  jewelled  bands, 
spreads  them  out  on  his  palm,  then  closes  his 
thumb  and  finger  round  her  wrist,  and  laughs 
a  rasping  laugh. 

"  Did  any  mortal  man  ever  see  such  a  hand? 
You  witch  !  with  eyes  that  probe  into  a  fellow's 
soul,  and  shame  him  and  fear  nothing!  "  and  he 
tightens  his  grip,  and  she  winces  at  his  rough- 
ness. **  There  [with  a  softening  of  voice],  did  I 
hurt  you,  you  poor  little  thing,  you  queer  little 
womany?  Come  closer  [with  fierce,  impatient 
tenderness]  ;  put  down  your  little  old  head,  a 
head  like  a  snipe,  on  my  breast !  There,  great 
God,  I  'm  very  fond  of  you  !  '*  A  tremor  runs 
through  his  voice.  **  You  queer  little  thing ! 
You  are  no  beauty,  but  you  creep  in,  and  I,  I 
love  every  inch  of  you.  I  'd  kiss  the  ground 
under  your  feet,  I  know  every  turn  of  your  little 
body,  the  slope  of  your  shoulders,  —  I  that 
always  liked  women  to  have  square  shoulders  ! 
—  the  swing  of  your  hips  when  you  walk.  Hips  ! 
ha,  ha!  you  have  n't  got  any,  you  scrap!  And 
yet,  by  the  Lord,  I'd  lick  you  like  a  dog 
[slower,  with  emphasis]  !  Knd.  you  don't  care  for 
me !      You  obey  me,  no   matter  what  I  ask." 


A  shadow's  slant.  153 

He  IS  holding  her  face  against  his  breast,  and 
stroking  her  head  with  clumsy  touch.  *'  You 
wait  on  me,  —  ay,  no  slave  better,  —  and  yet  I 
can't  get  at  you,  near  you  ;  that  little  soul  of 
yours  is  as  free  as  if  I  hadn't  bought  you,  as 
if  I  did  n't  own  you,  as  if  you  were  not  my 
chattel,  my  thing  to  do  what  I  please  with  —  do 
you  hear  [with  fury] — to  degrade,  to — to 
treat  as  I  please  ?  No,  you  are  not  afraid,  you 
little  white-faced  thing ;  you  obey  because  you 
are  strong  enough  to  endure,  not  because  you 
fear  me.  And  I  know  it;  don't  you  think  I  don't 
see  it !  You  pity  me,  great  God  !  pity  me,  —  me 
that  could  whistle  any  woman  to  heel !  Yes,  you 
pity  me  with  all  that  great  heart  of  yours 
because  I  am  just  a  great,  weak,  helpless, 
drunken  beast,  a  poor  wreck  ! "  And  the  tears 
jump  out  of  his  eyes,  eyes  that  are  limpid  and 
blue  and  unspoiled ;  and  he  sobs  out :  **  Kiss 
me !  take  my  head  in  your  arms  !  I  am  a  brute, 
an  infernal  brute,  but  I  'm  awfully  fond  of  you, 
you  queer  little  gypsy,  with  your  big  heart  and 
your  damnable  will !  I  !  I  !  I  who  hated  women 
like  poison,  who  always  treated  them  as  such,  — 
I  could  cry  when  I  look  at  you,  like  a  great 
puling  boy,   because  your   spirit  is  out  of  my 


1 54  KEYNOTES. 

grasp.  Smooth  my  head  !  no  other  little  hand 
in  the  world  has  such  a  touch  as  yours.  I  'd 
know  it  among  a  thousand,  my  poor  little 
thing !  Don't  ever  leave  me !  promise  even 
if  I  go  mad,  promise  you  '11  stay !  Get  a  man 
to  mind  me,  but  stay,  won't  you?     Stay  !  " 

''  I  '11  stay." 

*'  Did  any  Christian  man  ever  have  such  an 
atom  for  a  wife?  I  believe  you  are  a  gypsy; 
your  hair  curls  at  the  ends  Hke  a  live  thing, 
and  there  are  red  lights  in  its  black,  and  your 
eyes  have  a  flash  in  them  at  times  and  a  look 
as  if  you  were  off  in  other  lands !  Oh,  oh ! 
get  me  a  little  brandy,  quick,  quick ! " 

Merrily  twang  the  guitars,  and  the  tambou- 
rines rattle  as  they  are  swung  aloft  by  slender 
curving  wrists.  The  wild  cries  of  a  Zingari 
dance  ring  out.  Black  eyes  gleam,  and  brown 
skins  shine  under  orange  and  scarlet  kerchiefs. 
The  grace  of  panthers  and  the  charm  of  wild, 
untamed,  natural  things  is  revealed  in  every 
movement.     Color,  vivacity,  dirt,  and  rhythm. 

Wild  the  music,  wilder  the  dance ;  and  he  sits 
in  his  chair  on  the  veranda,  the  clean,  clear  air 
and  the  fresh  breeze  blowing  in  from  the  sea, 


A  shadow's  slant.  155 

stirring  the  white  hairs  in  the  curls  at  his 
temples,  and  Hstens  and  looks  with  no  eye  or 
ear  for  aught  of  its  beauty,  —  only  a  ribald  jest 
as  their  petticoats  rise,  or  their  bosoms  quiver 
in  the  fling  of  the  dance.  And  she,  with  a 
crimson  shawl  drawn  round  her  spare  shoulders 
and  a  splash  of  color  in  her  thin  cheeks,  holds 
one  hand  tightly  pressed  over  her  breast  —  to 
still  what?  What  does  the  music  rouse  inside 
that  frail  frame?  What  parts  her  lips  and  causes 
her  eyes  to  glisten  and  the  thin  nostrils  to  quiver? 
Is  there  aught  in  common  between  that  slight 
figure,  with  its  jewelled  hands  and  its  too  heavy 
silken  gown,  and  those  tattered  healthy  Zingari 
vagabonds?     Who  knows? 

The  whole  tribe  are  gathered  round  him, 
begging  and  screaming  with  one  voice,  and  he 
throws  silver  lavishly  to  them,  and  thrusts  his 
hand  with  a  coarse  jest  into  the  open  bodice  of 
the  girl  nearest  him.  A  brown  hand  goes  to  the 
knife  of  a  swarthy  youth  with  gold  rings  in  his 
ears ;  but  at  a  few  strange  words  from  the  oldest 
woman  in  the  group  the  girl  steps  back,  and 
with  the  quickness  of  lightning  the  hag  takes 
her  place  and  answers  his  jest  in  his  own  tongue. 
The  girl  looks  curiously,  pityingly,  respectfully 


156  KEYNOTES. 

at  the  other  girl :  she  is  a  little  more  than  a  girl 
as  she  stands  dumbly  by  during  all  this  scene. 
Eye  seeks  eye,  sympathy  meets  sympathy. 
What  affinity  is  between  these  two  creatures? 

"Kan  de  rokra  Romany?"  she  asks,  with  a 
smile  that  visits  her  face  as  the  ghost  of  a 
vanished  beauty ;  and  her  voice  is  sweetly  soft 
as  she  asks  it.  A  flash  of  eye,  a  hurried  back- 
ward word  thrown  to  the  old  woman  who  joins 
them  on  hearing  it  She  stands  between,  with  a 
smile  at  their  wonder,  and  she  holds  out  her 
hand,  and  one  slim  ivory-tinted  hand  rests  palm 
upward  in  a  no  less  slim  but  browner  one.  The 
old  woman  peers  into  the  lines  and  crosses,  and 
as  she  scans  them  a  look  of  wonder  creeps  up 
to  her  usually  inscrutable  face.  She  exchanges 
words  in  an  undertone  with  the  gypsy  girl  at 
her  side. 

"  I  speak  Romany  too,  Deya !  An  evil  fate, 
isn't  it,  mother?" 

**  A  mole  on  your  cheek,  and  a  free  Romany 
heart  in  your  breast,  your  spirit  fights  to  be  free 
as  the  Romany  chai.  Seven  suns  rise  and  seven 
moons,  and  the  flag  is  half  mast,  and  the  cage 
opens  and  the  bird  —  " 

An  impatient  curse  cuts  short  her  words,  and 
they  turn  to  him. 


A  shadow's  slant.  157 

"Here>you  old  Jezebel!  Send  these  vaga- 
bonds of  yours  down  there;  there's  plenty  to 
eat" 

The  servants  are  bearing  beer  and  food  to  the 
lawn. 

''  Shall  I  go  blind?  I  dare  say  you  know  as 
much  as  those  infernal  doctors,  eh?  " 

*'  No ;  your  eyes,  and  pretty  eyes  they  are, 
and  many  a  soul  they  've  lost,  they  '11  last  your 
time,  my  lord  !  I  see  a  journey  to  England  ;  it 
lies  before  you,  and  no  return.  Seven  times  the 
moon  will  rise,  and  the  Romanies  go  to  the 
South,  but  the  bird—" 

*^  Get  to  blazes  out  of  this !  Help  me  in, 
ducky;  oh,  damn  it,  be  quick!  Get  me  some 
brandy,  quick,  quick!  not  all  brandy,  a  little 
milk  in  it !  " 

The  moon  is  high  in  the  heavens,  and  the  sea 
is  running  into  the  creek  with  a  silver  sheen  on 
its  back ;  the  blinds  are  drawn  up  in  the  four 
windows  of  the  bedroom,  and  the  northern  night 
is  like  unto  day  disguised  in  a  domino  of  silver- 
gray  crape. 

He  is  sleeping.  She  is  standing  motionless 
at  the  window.     The  red  of  her  dressing-gown 


158  KEYNOTES. 

and  the  moonlight  make  her  face  look  more 
ghostlike,  as  she  leans  her  head  wearily  against 
the  window-frame.  She  is  gazing  seaward ;  a 
steamer  has  just  passed,  and  the  beacon  in  the 
lighthouse  on  Jomfru-land  gleams  like  a  great 
bright  eye.  In  how  many  dreary  vigils  has  it 
not  greeted  her  and  seemed  to  say :  "  Courage ! 
I  too  am  watching ;  you  are  not  alone  !  '* 

At  the  end  of  the  wood  two  tents  are  pitched, 
and  she  can  see  two  figures  outlined  against  the 
white  palings,  — the  Romany  girl  and  the  youth 
with  the  gold  ear-rings.  He  is  holding  her  in 
his  arms.  The  dog-chains  rattle  now  and  then ; 
something  brown  and  stealthy  creeps  about  the 
duck-house ;  the  white  mists  in  the  marshy  bit 
of  meadow  lying  next  the  creek  dance  like 
spirits,  and  beckon  to  her  with  shadowy  arms, 
and  a  faint  yellow  streak  appears  in  the  east. 
How  many  more  nights  must  she  stand  alone, 
and  watch  the  morning  herald  a  new  day  of 
bondage? 

She  moves  noiselessly  away,  and  goes  into 
the  dressing-room,  and  walks  over  to  the  mirror. 
She  shakes  her  dusky  elf-locks  round  her  face, 
and  catching  up  a  yellow  scarf  lying  on  a  chair 
winds  it  round  her  head,  and  then  peers  at  her- 


A   SHADOW'S   SLANT.  I59 

self  in  the  glass.  A  deft  twist  turns  down  the 
white  frills  of  her  nightgown ;  she  has  a  gold 
chain  round  her  neck,  and  she  laughs  a  childish, 
noiseless  laugh  at  her  own  image.  *'  How 
strangely  my  eyes  gleam,  and  what  a  gypsy  I 
look !  No  one  would  know,  no  one  would 
dream  of  it.  I  would  soon  get  brown !  *'  and 
she  looks  wistfully  out  toward  the  camp  again. 
"  In  an  hour  they  will  go.  A  heap  of  fern  to 
lie  on,  scant  fare,  and  weary  feet;  but  the 
freedom,  ah,  the  freedom !  The  woods  with 
their  wealth  of  shy,  wild  things,  and  the  moun- 
tains that  make  one  yearn  to  soar  up  over  their 
heights  to  the  worlds  above !  Free  to  follow 
the  beck  of  one's  spirit,  a-ah  to  dream  of  it !  " 
and  the  red  light  glows  in  her  eyes  again. 
They  have  an  inward  look;  what  visions  do  they 
see?  The  small  thin  face  is  transformed,  the 
lips  are  softer,  one  quick  emotion  chases  the 
other  across  it,  the  eyes  glisten  and  darken 
deeply,  and  the  copper  threads  shine  in  her 
swart  hair.  What  is  she  going  to  do,  what 
resolve  is  she  making? 

A  muttered  groan,  a  stir  in  the  bed  rouses 
her,  and  throwing  aside  the  scarf  she  glides 
swiftly  to  his  side.     She  stands  and  looks  down. 


l60  KEYNOTES. 

What  a  magnificent  head  it  is,  and  how  repel- 
lant !  The  tossed  black  locks  with  their  silver 
streaks  lie  scattered  on  the  pillow.  The  ear 
suggests  vigorous  animalism,  the  nose  is  power- 
ful, the  broad  forehead  shines  whitely,  and  the 
long  lashes  curl  upward  as  those  of  a  child. 
The  sensual-lipped  mouth  with  its  cruel  lines 
shows  more  cruel  as  the  head  is  thrown  back. 
She  looks  at  it  steadily;  no  line  escapes  her,  — 
looks  from  it  to  the  hands,  nerveless,  white;  the 
long,  thin  thumbs  have  a  hateful  expression, 
and  the  backs  are  short  with  an  ugly  joining  to 
the  wTists.  He  stirs,  and  a  lewd  word  escapes 
his  lips.  She  shudders  !  Again  her  eyes  wan- 
der out  with  an  appealing  look  (to  whom  do 
they  appeal,  —  to  part  of  herself,  to  some  God 
of  convention?)  toward  the  camp.  They  are 
stirring;  she  can  see  the  Finn  dog  run  to  and 
fro.  She  steps  away  ;  irresolution  is  expressed 
in  her  face  ;  her  head  is  thrust  forward,  her 
fingers  spread  out  unconsciously.  She  glances 
across  the  floor;  some  shelves  are  to  be  nailed 
up,  one  of  them  is  leant  against  the  wardrobe 
.  door.  As  she  hesitates,  she  notices  that  the 
shadow  of  it  and  the  half-closed  door  throws  a 
long  cross   almost  to  her  feet.     She  folds  her 


A  shadow's  slant.  i6i 

hands  involuntarily :  a  whimper  from  the  bed,  a 
frightened  call,  — 

*' Come  to  me!  Where  are  you?  Don't 
leave  me  a  second  !  oh,  God !  don't  leave  me  ! 
What's  that  there?  Give  me  a  drop  of  brandy ! 
quick,  oh  quick !  Kneel  down,  dearie,  close, 
close  to  me  ;  lay  your  little  old  cheek  against 
mine,  and  say  a  little  prayer,  —  no  psalm  busi- 
ness, just  one  out  of  your  own  httle  head  [sob] 
to  suit  a  poor  devil  like  me !  '* 

The  sun  is  saying  good-morning  to  the 
moon  ;  she  is  wan  from  watching.  The  birds 
are  awake,  but  the  man  still  sleeps;  and  the 
little  red-gowned  figure  crouched  at  the  bed- 
side, her  left  hand,  with  its  heavy  gold  band, 
clasped  lightly  in  his,  is  sleeping  too.  A  half- 
dried  tear  is  held  in  the  dark  hollow  under  the 
closed  eyes;  the  nose  looks  pinched  in  the 
morning  light,  and  a  gray-green  shadow  stains 
mouth  and  chin,  but  a  smile  plays  round  the 
dry  lips. 

The  caravan  is  winding  slowly  round  the 
cuj've  of  the  road,  and  three  plump  geese  are 
stowed  inside.  The  Romany  lass  is  humming 
a   song,  —  a   song   about  love    and   dance  and 


1 62  KEYNOTES. 

song,  —  and  the  soul  of  the  sleeping  girl  floats 
along  at  her  side  in  a  dream  of  freedom.  She 
of  the  song  looks  up :  **  Six  moons  will  rise,  then 
you  will  be  free !  "  she  mutters  to  herself  as  she 
passes  on ;  and  the  sun  mounts  higher,  and  the 
shadow  of  the  cross  is  lightening  with  the  com- 
ing dawn  —  who  knows  ? 


III. 

AN   EBB   TIDE. 

On  right  and  left  with  flight  of  light. 

How  whirled  the  hills,  the  trees,  the  bowers ! 
With  light-like  flight,  on  left  and  right, 

How  spun  the  hamlets,  towns,  and  towers  1 
Dost  quail  ?    The  moon  is  fair  to  see ; 

Hurrah  !  the  Dead  ride  recklessly ! 
Beloved  !  Dost  dread  the  shrouded  dead  ? 

"  Ah,  let  the  dead  repose  ! "  she  said. 

James  Clarence  Mangan  :  Anthology, 

It  is  a  sunshine  Sabbath  morning.  The  sea 
quivers  under  an  armor  of  silver  scales,  and 
laps,  laps  with  a  laugh  as  it  runs  into  the  creek. 
The  sails  of  the  ships  glisten  whiter  than  any 
snow.  The  sun  distils  the  scent  from  the 
clove  carnations  and  the  sweetbrier  leaves,  and 
coaxes  the  pungent  resin  through  the  cracks 
in  the  bark,  until  the  air  is  heavy  with  a  smell 
that  would  cease  to  be  perfume,  were  it  not 
filtered  through  the  salt  ooze  of  the  incoming 
sea-breeze  that  flutters  the  flags  on  the  tall 
white  poles,  and  tempers  the  ardor  of  the 
young  year's  sun. 


1 64  KEYNOTES. 

The  kariol  bearing  the  specialist  whose  skill 
is  of  no  avail  in  the  face  of  a  pressing  call  from 
the  great  god  Death,  has  just  wound  round  the 
pine-wood  in  a  whirl  of  dust.  The  dogs,  un- 
bound, lie  on  the  back  veranda,  with  their 
black  snouts  resting  on  their  forepaws,  and 
they  watch  him  depart  without  a  growl;  they 
have  not  barked  for  days  past,  nor  chased  the 
plucky  badger,  nor  yapped  impatiently  as  the 
cheeky  squirrels  flirted  through  the  branches. 
Even  beggars  have  come  and, gone  without  a 
snarling  protest;  but  all  last  night  they  howled 
and  bayed  and  cowered  together  as  if  they  could 
see  the  passage  of  invisible  guests.  A  peculiar 
stillness  seems  to  brood  over  the  great  place. 
The  maids  are  sitting  in  their  gowns  of  Sunday 
black,  with  open  psalm-books  on  their  laps; 
they  are  listening  and  w^hispering  with  the  dis- 
turbance of  expectancy. 

The  housekeeper  is  talking  to  the  leech 
woman,  quaint  survival  of  older  days,  whose 
business  in  life  is  to  keep  the  slimy  suckers 
lively  and  apply  them.  She  looks  as  if  she  fed 
them  between  times  on  herself,  so  bony  and 
colorless  a  creature  is  she.  They  are  negotia- 
ting the  last  ghastly  offices  that  may  soon  be 


AN  EBB  TIDE.  1 65 

needed,  speculating  as  to  the  changes  and  their 
effect  on  the  village.  The  vicar,  she  tells,  is 
about  to  make  the  departing  life  the  text  of  his 
sermon ;  every  one  in  the  district  is  coming  to 
hear  it.  Why  not?  A  sermon  of  warning, 
with  a  smack  of  the  Pharisee  in  it ;  a  '*  Lord,  I 
thank  Thee  I  am  not  like  unto  this  man  "  note, 
especially  if  you  know  the  publican  in  question, 
cannot  fail  to  be  attractive;  it  has  an  up-to- 
date  interest  that  the  parable  of  the  far-away- 
time  sinner  necessarily  lacks. 

Upstairs  the  cow-girl  is  crouching  like  a 
faithful  dog  outside  his  bedroom  door;  she  is 
listening  to  the  murmured  Latin  service  of  the 
mass  that  comes  from  inside.  The  windows  of 
the  room  are  wide  open,  and  the  sea  stretches 
away  and  melts  into  the  horizon  in  an  infinity 
of  blue  and  silver.  He  is  lying  still  on  the  ebb 
of  his  last  tide,  and  when  his  eyes  open  they 
wander  from  the  little  priest  before  the  extem- 
porized altar,  to  the  bowed  head  of  the  woman 
kneeling  beside  him. 

"  Pax  Domini  sit  semper  vobiscum !  "  intones 
the  priest. 

"  Et  cum  spiritu  tuo ! "  she  utters  in  re- 
sponse,   in   dead,    dull    tones;    and   when   she 


1 66  KEYNOTES. 

chimes  the  little  silver  bell  she  does  it  in  a 
mechanical  way,  and  all  the  time  he  holds  her 
one  hand  to  his  breast.  When  the  mass  is  read 
and  the  extreme  unction  administered,  the  little 
priest  reads  the  prayers  for  the  dying.  He 
listens  attentively,  and  she  listens  too,  with  eyes 
dry  as  horn,  and  tightened  lips.  She  scarcely 
hears  what  he  reads :  — 

''  My  feet  have  gone  astray  in  the  paths  of 
vanity  and  sin,  now  let  me  walk  in  the  way  of 
Thy  commandments.  .  .  .  Forgive  me,  O  Lord, 
all  the  sins  which  I  have  committed  by  my 
disordered  steps  —  " 

**  *  Steps  !  *  that  means  feet;  *  eyes  seen  vani- 
ties,' that  means  sight;  *  tongue  hath  in  many 
ways  offended,*  speech.  Why,  he  is  going 
through  all  the  seven  senses,  or  is  it  seven,  or 
five?*'  She  must  give  him  the  envelope  with 
the  check  in  it  before  he  leaves.  She  has  n't 
a  black  frock,  not  one ;  he  liked  her  in  colors, 
light  girlish  colors,  with  a  silken  waist-band  to 
match.  Must  she  wire  for  a  coffin  ?  What  a 
beast  she  is  to  think  like  this !  But  how  can 
she  help  it?  Her  tear-bags  —  what  is  their 
right  name,  lachrymal  glands  ?  —  are  exhausted, 
even  her  lashes  have  thinned;   yet  she  never 


AN   EBB   TIDE.  1 67 

shed  a  tear,  at  least  only  inwardly,  with  a 
choke. 

He  sobs,  and  she  looks  up;  the  tears  are 
trickling  down  his  cheeks ;  she  puts  up  her  free 
hand  and  wipes  them  off  gently. 

*'To  Thee  I  resign  my  heart!  Into  Thy 
hands,  O  Lord,  I  commend  my  spirit !  "  reads 
the  priest  in  broken  English  ;  and  when  the, 
from  its  point  of  view,  beautiful  prayer  has 
drawn  to  a  solemn  close,  the  man  sobs  out  in 
genuine,  heartfelt  conviction  with  a  force  of 
epithet  that  is  habit  not   irreverence, — 

"  That  is  a  damn  nice  prayer !  I  was  always 
afraid  of  death,  always  [with  a  sob]  a  coward  ; 
but  when  it  comes  to  the  point,  that  vanishes 
too!" 

And  the  boyish  priest  purses  his  check 
and  takes  it  with  him,  and  leaves  his  blessing 
instead,  and  follows  in  the  wake  of  the  town 
doctor. 

"  Send  Johann  to  me,  dearums ;  let  me  get 
dressed ;  I  '11  have  a  try  to  die  in  the  sunshine. 
Get  your  own  little  bed  carried  down  to  the 
veranda,  and  your  own  little  white  pillow,  — 
mind,  the  one  you  put  your  head  on  last,  —  and 
lend  them  to  me  for  this  turn." 


1 68  KEYNOTES. 

And  so  the  maids  take  it  down,  and  she 
stands  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  as  they  carry- 
it,  two  at  the  head,  and  two  at  the  foot ;  and 
as  she  hears  their  cautious  backward  steps  and 
the  rest  at  the  turn,  she  fancies  it  sounds  Hke 
the  bearing  out  of  a  coffin.  And  then  he 
follows  slowly  out,  leaning  on  his  big  stick, 
and  his  beard  divides  into  patches  and  shows 
the  purplish  skin,  and  his  breathing  is  labored, 
but  he  steps  more  firmly  than  he  has  done 
for  a  long  time  past.  And  he  leans  on  her 
frail  shoulders,  and  when  they  reach  the  dining- 
room  he  calls  in  the  maids  and  the  men  who 
serve  him,  and  bids  them  charge  their  glasses ; 
and  he  thanks  them,  and  says  he  is  sorry  for 
all  the  trouble  he  has  given  them,  and  shakes 
hands  with  each  one,  and  they  courtesy  and 
say  "  Skaal  !  "  a  salutation  when  drinking,  and 
troop  out  crying.  They  are  mostly  women, 
and  women  forgive  easily  and  forget  every- 
thing—  to  a  man!  Only  the  cow-girl  stops 
behind,  crouched  near  the  door,  crying,  "  O-ah, 
o-ah !  "  And  he  fills  his  own  glass  with  cham- 
pagne and  sips  it;  but  nature  sets  a  limit  to 
the  alcohol  a  man  may  absorb,  and  he  has 
passed  it.     He  cannot  get  it  down ;   so  he  lays 


AN   EBB   TIDE.  1 69 

his  hand  on  her  head  and  smooths  it  gently, 
and  says :  — 

''  Your  luck,  little  one,  your  very  good  luck  ! 
Oh,  my  poor  little  one,  I  am  afraid  for  you  !  I 
ought  to  have  —  well,  it 's  no  good  regretting;  " 
and  with  a  last  flame  of  the  old  fierce  fire  he 
cries,  *'  I  have  had  my  last  drink,  and  no  man 
shall  drink  after  me  ; "  and  he  shivers  the  glass 
against  the  wall,  and  purple  shadows,  the 
''  skreigh  "  of  another  dawn,  chase  one  another 
over  his  swollen  face,  and  he  leans  heavily  on 
her  and  says  faintly,  **  Lay  me  down,  I  am 
tired !  '' 

When  they  reach  the  veranda,  the  leaves  of 
the  virgin-vine  are  strewn  in  dancing  shadow- 
leaves  and  fluttering  tendrils  at  their  feet.  He 
looks  at  them  and  mutters,  **  Shadows  —  only 
shadows !  " 

Suddenly  he  searches  her  face  intently  and 
asks,  "Is  there  no  hope,  little  one,  —  none?'* 
He  reads  the  answer  in  her  wistful  eyes. 
**When?  Don't  you  be  afraid  to  tell  me, — 
when  did  he  say?  " 

**  Inside  twenty-four  hours." 

There  is  a  long  silence,  and  the  shadow-leaves 
dance,  and  the  bees  whirl  buzzing  past,  and  the 


170  KEYNOTES. 

strong  young  life  of  midsummer  mocks  dissolu- 
tion in  a  subtle,  arrogant  way. 

**  One  good  clean  year,  one  clean  year,  one 
year's  home  for  a  finish !  Just  as  I  learnt  to 
know  what  it  meant,  to  leave  it  all !  It 's  hard 
to  look  on  a  day  Hke  this  [sob],  and  know  that 
to-morrow  I  rot.  A  long  life  as  lives  go,  and 
nothing  to  show  for  it !  Well,  I  always  wanted 
to  die  in  the  sunshine,  with  the  birds  singing, 
and,  since  I  knew  you,  with  you  near  me,  —  oh, 
my  dear,  my  poor,  dear  little  one !  " 

He  reels,  and  she  clutches  him;  but  he 
steadies  himself  by  a  supreme  effort,  and  says 
through  his  ground  teeth:  "Now  I  am  going  to 
say  good-by  to  the  world,  and,  by  God  !  I  '11  say 
it  standing.  I  have  had  good  days  in  it,  — wild, 
glad  days,  drunk  with  the  lust  of  love  and  wine ; 
but  I  never  saw  good  or  beauty  in  it  till  you 
showed  me  how.  Oh,  oh,  oh  1  Let  no  man 
write  my  epitaph  !  '* 

He  stands  leaning  on  her  shoulders,  looking 
sea-ward,  drinking  his  fill  of  sun  and  sea,  —  sea 
that  was  a  rapture  to  him,  that  he  loved  as  the 
greatest  and  strongest  and  crudest  thing  he 
knew ;  the  only  thing  that  responded  to  the  wild 
moods  in  his  soul,  and  struck  a  rushing  strain 


AN   EBB   TIDE.  I /I 

of  song  in  his  stormy  heart  that  made  him  rejoice 
with  a  fierce  deHght.  The  tears  fall  and  splash 
on  her  hands,  and  then  she  helps  him  to  lie 
down ;  and  she  feels  his  feet,  and  they  bring  hot 
bottles,  for  they  are  getting  cold,  and  he  lies 
with  his  eyes  closed.  The  village  doctor  comes 
and  goes ;  but  nothing  can  be  done,  the  sands 
are  running  out  fast.  *'  If  the  Lord  be  merciful 
[the  sermon  is  working  in  him]  He  will  take 
him  before  morning,  otherwise  he  will  suffer 
much,*'  he  whispers  to  her.  She  does  not  an- 
swer, only  kneels  silently  at  his  side,  and  he 
holds  her  hand.  There  is  a  strange  smell  that 
has  a  chill  uncleanness  in  its  breath  about 
them. 

The  people  pass  by  on  the  road  above  and 
peer  down  through  the  palings.  The  maids 
give  audience  to  inquisitive  or  interested  callers 
at  the  back.  The  housekeeper  is  busy  at  the 
linen  press,  sorting  out  sheets  and  things  that 
may  be  needed ;  and  as  she  moves  about  with 
noiseless  tread,  and  folds  and  lays  aside,  she 
mentally  remodels  her  wardrobe.  If  she  take 
out  the  flower  in  her  black  summer  hat,  and  put 
in  some  curled  tips,  it  will  serve  nicely.  Mis- 
tress will  surely  bring  her  a  dress  from  England, 


\^2  KEYNOTES. 

and  the  merino  they  hang  the  rooms  with  (she 
will  get  it  cut  the  proper  lengths)  will  do  for 
the  maids.  Uf!  that  nasty  wine  gave  her  a 
headache  ;  she  will  get  some  fresh  beans  roasted, 
and  have  a  good  cup  with  fresh  cream,  —  that 
will  do  her  good.  How  Gudrun  [the  cow- 
girl] takes  on !  He  was  a  devil  to  serve,  but 
there  were  advantages,  —  ay,  many  pickings 
that  would  not  fall  to  one's  share  in  a  better 
regulated  Christian  household,  not  to  speak  of 
the  distinct  comfort  of  having  a  mistress  whose 
time  is  taken  up  elsewhere.  Poor  thing !  Well, 
it's  best  for  her;  she  has  money,  she'll  marry 
again.  But  tJiat  Gudrun  !  it  is  odd.  Why  should 
she  carry  on  so?  Or  could  there  be  a  reason? 
He  always  took  great  notice  of  Gudrun  ;  she 
used  to  laugh  and  grin  and  go  on  when  he  went 
out  in  the  yard,  and  never  was  afraid ;  and  then 
there  was  that  anonymous  letter  the  mistress 
got.  Uf!  Men  folk,  God  save  us!  Even  with 
a  leg  in  the  grave  it 's  hard  to  trust  them ! 
There 's  no  smoke  without  fire,  that 's  sure. 
There,  that 's  all  ready.     "  Well !  what  is  it?  " 

This  to  the  second  housemaid.  She  is  a  fat 
girl,  with  a  restless  twitch  about  her  mouth  and 
half-closed    eye-lids,  that  curl    upward  at   the 


AN  EBB  TIDE.  1 73 

outer  corners.  One  gets  the  impression  some- 
how that  her  soKd  physique  is  but  a  mask  to 
cover  an  emotional  soul  with  a  dangerous  sense 
of  humor. 

"  The  Bible  reader,  Morten  Ring,  wants  to 
know  if  he  may  read  for  a  while,  now  that  the 
Popish  priest  has  gone  and  left  the  dying 
sinner  without  any  one  to  direct  his  thoughts 
heavenward.'* 

There  is  an  imitative  note  in  her  voice,  and  a 
mocking  gleam  shoots  from  her  eyes. 

"Uf!  is  he  here  again?  That's  the  third 
time.  Mistress  told  him  no  before,  and  strong 
enough  too ;  I  should  think  that  ought  to  have 
been  more  than  enough  for  him." 

"  Yes,  but  he  says  the  whole  village  thinks  it 
shocking,  and  he  is  like  sent  up,  and  that  you 
might  put  it  to  her  !  " 

**  Indeed,  then  I  won't !  When  I  did  last  time, 
she  told  me  to  tell  him  to  go  down  to  the 
weighing  place  on  the  wharf  and  ring  a  bell, 
and  call  the  population  together,  and  read  out 
to  them  all  the  places  in  the  Bible  that  refer  to 
hypocrisy,  lying,  and  scandal,  the  sins  of  adul- 
tery, fornication,  and  the  begetting  of  bastards ; 
that  she  'd  be  willing  to  pay  him  treble  his  fee 


174  KEYNOTES. 

for  the  charity  of  it,  they  need  it  so  much.  It 
might  teach  them  to  begin  at  home  and  let 
other  folks  alone." 

"  Shall  I  tell  him  that?  "  eagerly. 

*^Are  you  mad?  No,  tell  him  Mistress  is 
reading  herself,  and  ask  him  to  stay  and  have  a 
good  cup  of  coffee  and  sweet  rusks.  I  want  to 
get  the  truth  out  of  him  about  the  magistrate's 
girl's  illness ;  he  was  up  there,  and  I  don't  be- 
lieve a  sniff  in  her  sprained  foot  —  " 

And  down  below  the  rose-buds  opened  into 
roses,  and  nodded  with  the  effrontery  of  assured 
beauty  to  the  sun-god  ;  and  the  birds  hushed 
them  for  their  noon  siesta;  and  he  lay  with 
shut  eyes  and  held  her  hand  tightly  ;  and  some- 
times he  spoke  to  her,  and  sometimes  he  mut- 
tered to  himself  (she  caught  the  words)  a  line 
of  his  favorite  Mangan :  — 

"  Sleep  !  no  more  the  dupe  of  hopes  and  schemes, 
Soon  thou  sleepest  where  the  thistles  blow  ! 

Curious  anticlimax  to  thy  dreams 
Twenty  golden  years  ago  !  " 

The  odd  unpleasant  smell  seems  to  hang 
about  them  as  if  too  heavy  to  diffuse  itself  in 
the  thin,  clear  air ;  the  smell  of  cow-sheds  that 
clings  to  the  cow-girl's  clothes  is  perfume  to  it. 


AN  EBB  TIDE.  1 75 

It  attracted  the  flies,  and  they  gathered  like 
swarming  bees  on  the  window-panes  and  door- 
posts, and  buzzed  and  hummed  and  stung  like 
Bushmen  carousing  over  a  find  of  dead  meat ; 
and  they  crept  over  the  bed  and  stuck  in  his 
hair,  and  she  tried  to  keep  them  off  his  face ; 
and  when  one  of  them  crawled  up  her  own 
with  tickling,  clinging  feet,  she  paled  and  shud- 
dered. The  cow-girl  stepped  out  of  her  clogs, 
and  went  into  the  drawing-room  and  brought 
out  a  gayly  painted  palm-leaf  fan,  and  stationing 
herself  at  the  head  of  the  bed  set  it  in  motion. 
His  breathing  is  getting  labored,  and  at  times 
an  ugly  flush  crosses  his  face.  Once  when  it 
is  deeper  than  usual,  the  girl  cries,  — 

*'  O  Lord  God  !  Lord  God  !  " 

He  hears  her  and  looks  up.  **  Ah,  Gudrun, 
is  that  you?     Good  girl,  good  girl !  '* 

She  sinks  on  to  her  knees,  and  moans  and 
rocks  herself;  and  then  she  looks  at  his  closed 
eyes  and  says  to  her:  ^*  Mistress,  may  I?  It 
can't  harm  you  !  " 

She  nods  her  head  wearily;  she  is  fanning 
awkwardly  with  her  left  hand,  and  she  says  with 
her  tired,  tender  voice:  ^*  Gudrun  wants  to  say 
good-by,  dear !  '* 


1/6  KEYNOTES. 

He  opens  his  eyes,  and  for  a  moment  the 
charm  of  his  rare  smile  returns.  The  girl  stoops 
and  leaves  a  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  and  then 
rushes  away  and  flings  herself  down  on  the 
long  lush  grass,  that  is  never  cut,  under  a  big 
chestnut-tree. 

He  looks  at  her  and  lifts  her  hand  to  his  lips : 
*'  Always  a  big  heart,  always  a  great  little 
woman  [with  a  groan]  !  and  now  I  am  to  lose 
you,  and  it  is  the  best  thing  could  happen  to 
you.  Ay,  there's  the  sting,  —  leave  you  to 
some  brute,  that  is  my  punishment.  O  little 
one !  don't  you  think  too  hardly  of  me,"  he 
talks  with  effort ;  "  I  meant  to  be  better  than 
I  was  to  you.  You  '11  never  find  another  man 
love  you  as  I  did;  remember  that,  and  forget 
all  the  rest  if  you  can.  You  have  forgotten  all, 
I  might  have  known  you  would !  Where  am  I 
drifting  to?  No  man  ever  came  back  to  say. 
Do  you  believe  in  hell  [eagerly  ],  do  you  believe 
in  it?" 

She  looks  at  him  pityingly,  with  a  flash  of 
past  energy  in  the  lift  of  her  head,  and  a  curl  of 
scorn  on  her  pale  lips  :  *^  The  hell  of  the  priests 
or  parson?  No,  I  do  not.  Is  that  worrying 
you?     Don't  you  let  it,  old  man,  don't  you  let 


AN   EBB  TIDE.  1 7/ 

it!  Wherever  you  are  going,  whatever  after 
existence  your  poor  troubled  soul  is  fighting 
its  way  to,  it  is  not  to  their  hell!  " 

The  girl  has  come  back  and  taken  up  her 
former  position,  and  fans  steadily,  for  the  flies 
are  gathering  in  greater  numbers  every  hour. 
The  veranda  seems  airless  and  close,  and  un- 
canny with  unseen  things;  the  doctor  comes 
and  goes ;  the  servants  peep  out,  and  the  hours 
seem  to  hold  many  hours  in  their  embrace. 
She  seems  to  live  all  her  life  over  again.  Things 
she  has  forgotten  completely  come  vividly  back 
to  her.  An  old  Maori  man,  who  used  to  sell 
sweet  potatoes  and  quaint  ring-shells  for  'nap- 
kin rings  to  the  Pakeha  lady  in  Tauranga  Bay, 
floats  before  her  inward  vision  as  tangible  as  if 
he  were  next  her ;  and  a  soldier  servant,  she 
can  hear  his  voice,  he  used  to  sing  as  he  pipe- 
clayed,— 

**  But  kaipoi  te  waipero,  Kaipoi  te  waiena  ; 
For  Rangatira  Sal,  Bob  Walker  sold  his  pal, 
But  he  's  now  at  the  bottom  o'  the  harbor  !  " 

Why  did  the  stupid  chorus  come  back  to  her 
now;  what  chink  of  brain  did  it  lie  in  all  these 
years?     Oh  what  a  brute  she  is  and  how  cal- 


178  KEYNOTES. 

lous !  She  ought  to  read  prayers,  or  say 
things ;  in  a  few  hours  it  will  be  too  late  ever 
to  say  a  word  more.  She  finds  herself  beating 
time  with  her  foot  to  a  jig  tune,  a  bizarre  ac- 
companiment to  the  words  **  too  late."  She 
would  give  all  she  possesses  to  cry,  yet  she 
cannot ;   and  so  the  day  wears  on. 

Later  on  she  bends  her  head  to  him  and 
asks :  "  Are  you  dozing  or  are  you  thinking  ? 
What  are  you  thinking  of  ?  '* 

He  smiles.     "  Of  zoo,  dearums,  of  zoo  !  " 

**  Have  you  said  your  prayers?  Shall  I  read 
you  any  ? " 

"  Finished  them  long  ago !  I  am  just  wait- 
ing; lying  thinking  of  you,  dearie,  thinking  of 
you.  Happier  than  ever  I  was  since  I  left  off 
*  taw  in  the  lay '  and  pegging  tops." 

Her  question  was  a  concession  to  a  past  reli- 
gious conscience;  she  feels  as  she  puts  it  that 
as  for  herself,  if  she  would  die  as  she  sits  there, 
she  would  not  trouble  to  pray ;  it  would  be 
well  to  drift  out. 

There  is  another  weary  hour's  silence  ;  then 
he  looks  up  at  her  and  shivers  slightly,  and 
tightens  his  clasp  of  her  hand.  **  Kiss  me, 
duckums,    kiss    me !     Now   lay   your  little  old 


AN   EBB   TIDE.  1 79 

phiz  on  the  pillow  close  to  mine,  you  dearest 
and  best  in  the  world !     Close,  close  to  mine/' 

The  wind  is  changing,  and  the  sun  hides 
his  face  decently  behind  a  great  white  cloud. 
There  is  a  hoarse  rattle  in  his  throat,  and  his 
breathing  is  difficult.  The  doctor  comes  and 
stands  quietly  behind  her ;  the  crowd  at  the 
gate  above  gets  denser ;  the  servants  huddle 
together  in  the  dining-room  and  cry.  The 
Swedish  gardener  pats  them  all  in  turn,  but 
most  gently  the  fat  housemaid.  A  sudden  blast 
of  wind  blows  a  strand  of  her  hair  loose  and  it 
touches  his  lips,  and  he  mutters,  "  My  little 
one !  "  She  lifts  her  face  and  looks  at  him  ;  a 
strange  purple  color  vibration  is  waving  over 
his  face,  and  she  calls  affrightedly,  — 

"  Dear,  oh  dear  man,  look  at  me  !  Can  you 
see  me,  do  you  know  me  ?  " 

He  lifts  his  heavy  lids  and  looks  at  her 
steadily  with  half-dead  eyes,  and  says  with 
stiff,  barely  articulate  speech :  **  Of  course  I 
do,   my  dearie  !   I  *m   all   rig  —  " 

She  feels  his  fingers  close  more  tightly  over 
hers,  —  once,  twice,  —  then  relax;  his  chin  falls, 
and  the  doctor  passes  his  hand  over  his  eyelids 
and   puts   a  handkerchief  to   his  lips;  and  the 


l8o  KEYNOTES. 

cow-girl  drops  with  a  cry  to  the  ground  and 
throws  her  apron  over  her  head  ;  and  at  the 
gate  above  a  child  calls  "  Mammy !  '*  in  fright- 
ened tones  ;  and  the  lad  who  has  been  sitting 
up  on  the  slope  at  the  foot  of  the  flag-staff 
slides  the  Union  Jack  half-mast;  and  the  big 
white  house  is  without  a  master. 


She  is  sitting  in  an  old  garden,  a  retired  place 
in  the  village,  right  on  the  fjord.  They  have 
driven  her  down  there  away  from  the  house 
that  seems  haunted  by  his  spirit,  infected  with 
the  loathsome  odor  of  rapid  dissolution  that 
nothing  can  overcome,  that  seems  to  ooze  out 
and  taint  the  very  flowers.  And  then  the  myr- 
iad flies  that  crawl  and  creep,  as  if  sick  or 
drunk,  over  everything,  and  make  one  loathe 
and  turn  from  the  very  sight  of  food  and  drink, 
for  dread  of  where  they  have  been  ;  make  one 
long  to  scream  hysterically  to  drown  their  hate- 
ful buzzing,  and  rush  away  and  plunge  into  the 
sea,  —  were  it  not  that  it  too  seems  to  whisper 
in  undertones  of  dead  men  and  lost  sweethearts, 
drowned  mariners  with  swollen  gray-green  faces 
and  tangled  locks  floating  hke  sea-sedge  behind 


AN  EBB  TIDE.  l8l 

them,  as  they  toss  on  the  swift  undercurrents 
beneath  its  treacherous  smiHng  surface. 

It  is  with  her,  sitting  there,  as  it  is  with  most 
men,  that  when  numbed  in  mind  and  heart  by 
some  great  trouble  her  senses  are  more  aHve 
to  outward  sounds  and  scenes.  It  is  as  if  when 
one's  inner  self  is  working  with  some  emotion, 
wrestling  with  some  potential  moral  enemy,  cry- 
ing out  under  the  crucifixion  of  some  soul- 
passion,  eyes  and  ears,  and  above  all  sense  of 
smell,  are  busy  receiving  impressions  and  stor- 
ing them  up,  as  a  phonograph  records  a  sound, 
to  reproduce  them  with  absolute  fidelity  if  any 
of  the  senses  be  touched  in  the  same  way  by 
the  subtile  connection  between  perfume  and 
memory.  She  will,  in  all  time  to  come,  never 
forget  that  old  garden.  She  is  rocking  uncon- 
sciously to  and  fro.  Her  thoughts,  and  the 
emotions  belonging  to  them,  cross  one  another 
rapidly,  flash  past  as  the  landscape  seen  from  a 
mail  train,  so  that  she  cannot  fasten  any  of 
them.  The  weary  vigils  of  many  months,  the 
details  of  days  and  hours,  are  ticked  off  as  the 
events  on  a  tape.  The  look  in  his  eyes,  press 
of  his  fingers ;  the  quiet  face  with  the  awful  look 
of  peace;  the  rapid  changes  to  a  thing  to  be 


1 82  KEYNOTES. 

hidden  away  as  swiftly  as  hands  can  coffin  it; 
the  clasped  fingers,  never  to  be  lifted  in  tender 
caress  or  angry  gesture ;  the  future  to  face 
without  even  the  rough  protection  of  his  pas- 
sionate, wayward  affection ;  —  all  these  conflict- 
ing images  and  reasonings  dash  through  her 
brain,  and  yet  not  a  detail  of  her  surroundings 
escapes  her,  —  the  strips  of  blue  fjord,  with  the 
pilot  boats  with  their  numbered  sails  in  the 
immediate  foreground,  and  the  prams  turned 
bottom  up  on  the  miniature  wharf  for  a  fresh 
coat  of  paint ;  the  dip  of  the  white  sail  of  a 
pleasure-boat  in  the  distance,  and  the  gleam  of 
the  scarlet  cap  of  a  girl  steering;  bright  flecks 
on  the  black-green  shadows  of  the  trees  in  the 
near  background,  that  stand  out  distinctly  from 
the  misty  blue  of  the  distant  mountains,  misty 
with  the  purple  light  that  only  clothes  the 
northern  heights. 

Not  a  detail  of  the  quaint  garden  escapes  her. 
It  is  a  garden  of  surprises.  Fruit-trees  from 
strange  lands,  dwarf  shrubs  of  foreign  birth, 
curious  shells  gathered  on  the  beach  of  far-away 
islands,  flourish  promiscuously  with  indigenous 
plants.  A  painted  lady  (the  figure-head  of 
some  effete  sailing-craft),  who  has  cloven  the 


AN   EBB  TIDE.  1 83 

storms  through  many  seas  with  her  mighty 
breasts,  and  commanded  the  rising  waves  with 
her  upraised  hand,  and  faced  the  storm  with  a 
smile  ghastly  in  its  wooden  fixity,  has  come 
here  to  rest.  She  leans  next  to  an  old  sun-dial 
in  the  shade  of  an  ancient  lilac-bush.  The 
sense  of  beauty,  and  the  bump  of  utility  of  suc- 
cessive owners,  is  manifested  at  every  turn.  The 
even  drills  of  potatoes  are  disturbed  by  the 
tombstone  of  a  favorite  dog ;  a  plaster  Mercury, 
and  a  shrub,  cut  in  the  form  of  a  bulgy  tea-pot, 
spoil  the  symmetry  of  a  bed  of  carrots ;  straw- 
berries carrying  their  ripe,  red  fruit  right 
bravely  fill  the  background  of  one  bed,  and  a 
tangled  profusion  of  pinks,  pansies,  and  gilly- 
flowers, forget-me-nots,  and  fragrant  lavender 
spikes  have  a  long  straight  line  of  leeks  running 
amid  their  sweet  irregularity  as  a  pungent  line 
in  a  dainty  sheaf  of  verse.  She  is  conscious  of 
a  vague  pleasure  as  she  notes  these  things,  and 
a  sort  of  wondering  pity  at  the  pathos  of  her 
own  quiet  figure.  She  fingers  her  black  cash- 
mere gown  and  the  heavy  silk  fringe  of  her 
shawl.  She  never  wore  a  shawl  before ;  they 
had  nothing  else  black.  Her  mother  used  to 
wear  a  shawl,  a  white  Indian  silk  with  raised 


1 84  KEYNOTES. 

flowers.  Her  shoulders  sloped  too,  like  Eu- 
genie's. Funny  to  wear  a  shawl  like  an  old 
lady!  She  has  a  bag  with  money,  papers, 
certificate  of  death  for  the  customs.  What  a 
nuisance  all  these  formalities  are !  ''  Lum  turn, 
te  tum,  te  tum,"  —  the  dead  march  in  Saul !  no, 
she  mustn't  hum  that.  She  remembers  once  in 
the  long  ago,  before  the  flood,  her  flood,  she 
had  a  sweetheart,  a  boy  officer,  —  she  wonders 
did  he  get  fat ;  they  always  chaffed  and  said  he 
would.  Once  she  was  humming  it,  when  he 
stopped  her  saying,  ''  Oh,  don't!  when  any  one 
hums  that,  a  poor  soldier  dies  somewhere." 
Superstition,  of  course;  but  she  won't  hum 
it,  all  the  same,  just  for  the  old  sake's  sake. 
Why  should  she  kill  a  soldier?  She  used 
to  like  all  soldiers.  "  Tum  tum ! "  Is  she 
going  mad?  How  does  one  go  mad? 

She  turns  her  head  in  relief  at  an  approach- 
ing step.  The  little  doctor  stands  bowing,  hat 
in  hand.  She  notices  that  he  is  wearing  his 
dress-suit,  and  adds  mentally,  *'  They  wear  dress 
clothes  on  solemn  occasions,  christenings,  wed- 
dings, funerals.  Why,  of  course  it 's  the  funeral !  " 
She  even  smiles  at  the  conjunction  of  a  swallow- 
tail with  elastic    side-leather    boots  with  high 


AN  EBB   TIDE.  1 85 

heels.  His  trousers  too  must  have  been  made 
before  he  grew  stout;  they  ruck  up  at  the 
knees,  and  show  the  end  Hne  of  his  under- 
drawers  quite  plainly.  She  feels  inclined  to 
laugh.  She  hasn't  really  laughed  for  a  long 
time;  well,  why  shouldn't  she  laugh? 

"  Will  Fruen  come  now?  "  he  queries. 

There  is  a  subtile  blending  of  the  soothing 
professional  tone  he  uses  to  lady  patients  and 
the  gravity  befitting  a  solemn  occasion. 

She  takes  up  her  bag,  gathers  her  shawl 
mechanically  into  graceful  folds  over  her  arms, 
and  follows  him.  They  go  up  through  the 
wood,  past  the  poor-house,  to  a  side  entrance. 
She  notices  as  she  looks  down  over  the  town 
that  the  flags  are  all  half-way  down  the  staffs, 
and  that  the  village  is  crowded  with  folk ;  and 
that  outside  the  house  there  are  groups  of 
black-coated  men,  like  ants  crawling  about  a 
white  stone,  she  thinks.  The  little  housekeeper 
meets  her  at  the  door ;  the  other  girls  are  cry- 
ing. She  bows  to  people  without  recognizing 
them.  Then  there  is  a  tramping  of  feet,  and 
some  one  leads  her  out;  the  bell  is  tolling  up 
from  the  church,  and  she  sees  that  they  have 
covered  the  gray   cobs    with  black  palls,    and 


1 86  KEYNOTES. 

attached  a  black  canopy  to  the  cart,  and  out- 
lined the  spokes  of  the  wheels  with  fir  needles, 
and  smothered  the  rest  of  it  with  branches  and 
flowers,  wreaths  and  crosses,  and  harps  and 
lyres:  he  hated  music  too!  The  coffin  —  what 
an  ugly  black  thing,  with  an  exaggerated 
stomach  and  garished  silver  ornaments !  —  is 
resting  upon  the  Union  Jack.  A  crowd  of  faces 
that  she  does  not  know  meets  her.  She  places 
herself  behind  the  cart,  and  the  maids  follow 
her,  and  all  the  dogs  gather  round  her,  but 
never  growl  once  as  they  move  on;  and  the 
crowd  follows.  She  can  see  the  green  road; 
they  have  covered  it  according  to  custom  with 
branches  of  fir  and  pine,  —  a  green  river,  a 
grass-green  river,  winding  to  the  left.  And  the 
sea,  the  sea  he  loved,  —  it  seems  to  her  that 
there  is  a  cadence  of  pity  in  the  eternal  note  of 
its  quiet  sadness.  How  tired  her  feet  are  !  It 's 
quite  half  a  mile  yet.  She  has  no  ankles,  how 
funny !  Just  stilts  made  of  her  will.  She  trips. 
The  cow-girl  pushes  past  the  housekeeper,  and 
watches  her  steps. 

'*  Lord  God,  how  stony-faced  she  is  !  "  whispers 
the  doctor's  wife,  ^*  and  she  never  cried  once." 

It  is  a  long  way,  she  keeps  thinking.     Where 


AN  EBB   TIDE.  187 

are  they  going,  anyway?  Oh,  yes,  to  the  tug, 
—  the  tug  that  is  to  bear  them  away  on  a 
glorious  lonely  death-ride,  out  of  the  sunny 
fjord  to  the  glistening  sea,  away  to  where  the 
rainbow  ends.  At  the  end  of  the  rainbow 
you  '11  find  a  pot  of  gold  I  But,  first,  they  must 
pass  through  the  wide  wooden  gate ;  it  is  open. 
What  is  that  they  say  about  a  wide  wooden  gate? 
No,  it's  about  a  road,  —  it's  the  wide  road 
that  leads  to  destruction.  They  have  decked 
the  gate  with  green  too,  —  the  gate  through 
which  the  children  used  to  peer  with  inquisitive, 
frightened  child-eyes,  up  to  the  house  where 
the  wicked  man  dwelt.  How  they  used  to 
scamper  away  with  half-real,  half-acted  terror 
at  a  cry  of,  "  The  man  is  coming !  "  —  the  man 
who  was  a  bogie-man  to  them,  a  name  with 
which  to  threaten  them  when  naughty,  about 
whom  their  elders  told  dreadful  tales  in  sub- 
dued voices.  She  remembers  this,  and  smiles 
half  sadly  to  s;ee  as  they  reach  the  narrow  street 
how  the  children  swarm  to  meet  his  coming. 
There  is  no  school  to-day,  and  they  get  under 
the  horses'  hoofs,  and  crowd  round  the  car,  and 
point  with  dirty,  chubby  fore-fingers,  and  clasp 
hands,  and  cluster  together  in  groups  of  twos 


1 88  KEYNOTES. 

and  threes,  and  gaze  with  awe-struck  eyes,  and 
whisper,  and  follow.  And  one  whispers  to  his 
comrades  how  he  once  got  a  drive  and  a  silver 
piece  from  ''  the  man,"  and  another  how  he  gave 
little  Tulla  a  piece  of  cake.  And  she  thinks  of 
the  train  that  danced  in  the  wake  of  the  pied 
piper,  and  of  his  own  little  ones  who  know  him 
not.  Perhaps  they  are  dancing  and  laughing  to- 
day,—  to-day,  when  the  father  who  gave  them  no 
name  is  being  borne  along  to  the  tuneful  patter 
of  little  feet  that  are  not  of  his  kith  nor  his  kin. 
She  seems  to  feel  that  that  thing  in  the  coffin 
is  not  he.  He  is  walking  next  her,  laughing 
with  the  rare  humor  of  his  best  moments; 
chuckling  at  the  grand  funeral  they  are  giving 
him,  —  him  the  bad  man,  of  whom  they  had 
nought  but  evil  to  say.  How  hard  it  is  to  go 
down  hill  slowly  !  She  tells  herself  that  later  on 
in  the  ages  to  come,  when  the  little  ones  here 
have  gone  to  their  last  homes  as  withered  elders, 
the  tales  of  the  bogie-man  of  their  child-days 
may  have  grown  into  a  saga  of  a  wild  Angle- 
man  with  great  wealth,  who  landed  and  made 
himself  a  home  on  their  coast,  and  drank  and 
caroused  and  bought  the  strangest  things ;  who 
took  mad  sails  in  a  boat  ri^^ht  into  the  teeth  of 


AN   EBB  TIDE.  1 89 

coming  gales  that  the  pilots  feared  to  brave, 
when  the  white-crested  horses  leaped  high  over 
the  rocks,  and  the  sea-dragons  roared  below, 
and  the  gray  mews  shrieked  shrill  warnings  to 
the  fishers  to  hasten  them  home ;  who  turned 
the  night  into  day,  and  took  wild  hag-rides  with 
his  baying  and  galloping  horses  at  midnight, 
and  used  to  crack  his  whip  and  urge  them  on 
with  exultant  oaths,  and  never  let  his  little  wife 
out  of  his  sight,  but  call  for  her  if  he  missed  her 
till  the  woods  rang  with  her  name. 

They  reach  the  wharf.  The  tug  ''  Bully-boy," 
with  black  funnel  and  hissing  steam,  is  lying 
taut  to  the  pier.  Her  head  is  really  spinning. 
How  stupid  those  eight  men  are  !  they  have  n't 
backed  the  horses  enough.  Hats  off!  They 
lay  him  on  the  deck ;  they  have  put  the  old  flag 
under  him  and  piled  the  posies  on  top.  She 
pats  the  dogs  and  bids  them  stay,  and  lets  the 
women  kiss  her,  and  w^alks  up  the  plank :  one 
plank !  surely  there  should  be  four,  — 

"  For  thee  it  is  that  I  dree  such  pain 
As  when  wounded  even  a  plank  will ; 
My  bosom  is  pierced,  is  rent  in  twain, 
That  thine  may  ever  bide  tranquil, 

May  ever  remain 
Henceforward  untroubled  and  tranquil." 


igo  KEYNOTES. 

No,  that 's  not  the  verse  :  she  can't  get  it.  "  I 
heard  four  planks  fall  down  with  a  saddening 
echo?  —  with  a  hollow  echo?"  She  stands  by 
the  side  of  the  coffin  and  gazes  quietly  at  the 
crowd,  —  looks  at  the  men  with  their  uplifted 
hats,  at  the  black-draped  horses  (Puck  is  biting 
OUa  in  the  neck),  at  the  children,  and  the  group 
of  dogs ;  and  all  the  staring  eyes  seem  to  melt 
into  one  monster  multi-colored  eye,  that  pierces 
her  through  and  through.  Can't  they  see  she 
is  hollow,  — the  fools? 

They  loosen  the  hawser  and  cry  "  All  right !  " 
and  '^  Bully-boy  "  swings  round,  and  they  steam 
sea-ward,  and  she  sits  and  dreams,  and  the  tug 
dances  and  splutters  and  fusses  through  the 
sunlit  sea,  past  fjord  mouths  and  hamlets,  and 
boats  with  singing  children  and  yapping  dogs ; 
and  she  never  thinks  of  the  future,  nor  of  the 
steamer  she  is  to  meet  at  the  city,  nor  makes 
any  plan,  —  simply  sits  and  lets  her  fancies  run 
riot  through  her  tired  brain ;  sits  under  a  canopy 
of  clear  air,  and  listens  to  the  strange  conceits 
that  arise  in  her  thinking  self.  She  is  a  Viking's 
bond-maid  of  olden  days;  she  hid  on  his  bark 
while  they  built  up  his  funeral  pyre  and  laid  the 
old  warrior  down.  She  watched  them  touch 
the  flaming  pine-knot  to  his  fiery  mausoleum. 


AN   EBB   TIDE.  I9I 

and  set  him  adrift  to  the  strain  of  a  fierce,  exult- 
ant chant  of  victory,  to  sail  out  on  his  last  voy- 
age for  a  handigrips  with  the  grim  foe  Death. 
Ay,  he  too  was  a  primitive  man,  with  the  pri- 
meval passions  of  untamed  nature  surging  up 
and  eating  their  way  to  his  soul's  core,  as  rest- 
less breakers  hollow  a  place  on  the  coast ;  and 
now  he  is  going  to  rest. 

The  sun  sinks  in  a  superb,  audacious  blending 
of  hues ;  orange  and  scarlet,  pink  and  blue,  and 
lemon-yellow  streaks  with  splotches  of  intensest 
purple  are  hurled  from  a  palette  of  fire  in  a 
frenzy  of  color.  The  fishers  pause  and  look 
curiously  at  the  silent  little  figure  keeping  vigil 
next  the  flower-decked  coffin,  as  she  passes  them 
in  the  pearl-mists  of  the  summer  night,  —  pearl- 
mists  that  wrap  her  in  a  chilly  shroud  ;  and  she 
fancies  that  spirit  hands  spread  the  canopy  of 
starred  blue  over  them  as  they  glide  on ;  and 
the  moon  peers  down  and  nods  to  her,  and 
another  moon  runs  sea-ward  on  a  shining  silver 
river ;  and  the  foam  in  their  wake  ripples  to- 
gether like  frothing  diamond  chips  ;  and  the 
dew  falls  on  the  withering  flowers,  and  bathes 
her  pale  face  and  moistens  her  dry  lips  ;  and  the 
night  breeze  sings  sadly  to  the  thrumming  of 
unseen  harps,  and  soothes   her  troubled  spirit 


192  KEYNOTES. 

with  -tender  whisperings  that  only  the  stricken 
in  soul  can  catch  in  snatches  from  the  spirit  of 
nature.  The 'boy  takes  the  wheel,  and  the  cap- 
tain brews  her  some  coffee.  They  have  forgot- 
ten at  the  house,  in  their  care  for  the  funeral,  to 
provide  her  with  food  or  rugs.  She  is  too 
deliciously  weary  (there  is  no  new  effort  either 
to  make,  unless  she  chooses)  to  care.  When 
he  brings  it  to  her  she  swallows  it  gratefully,  and 
follows  him  to  the  stuffy  little  cabin,  and  lies 
down  as  he  suggests,  with  her  head  on  a  pilot 
coat,  and  he  covers  her  tenderly  with  another : 
she  is  so  small  and  frail  it  takes  but  little. 
Somehow  it  smells  ''  homey,"  with  its  mingled 
odor  of  tobacco  and  brine  and  man,  and  touches 
her  chilled,  lone  soul  like  the  honest  clasp  of  a 
warm  human  hand,  with  a  promise  of  rest  and 
shelter  to  come ;  and  under  its  homely  spell  she 
falls  asleep. 

And  so  these  two  poor  human  souls,  tossed 
together  for  good  or  ill  for  a  brief  space,  sleep 
their  last  together  through  the  summer  night. 
He,  to  no  mortal  awakening ;  she,  perchance,  to 
a  brighter  dawn. 

THE    END. 


